


Though Greater Far, Is Innocent

by penumbra



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship / Flirting / Thinking of You Fest, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, M/M, Sexual John, Slice of Life, Soulmates, True Love, oh the fluff it is staggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 122
Words: 57,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/pseuds/penumbra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s. They rock in tandem, breathe in tandem. “What are we doing, John?” Sherlock asks. </p><p>John isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks it’s exactly what they’re supposed to be doing.  </p><p> </p><p>(122 Sherlock minutiae/vignettes/drabbles/coping mechanism that served me well waiting for season 3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> _Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;_   
>  _Men reckon what it did, and meant;_   
>  _But trepidation of the spheres,_   
>  _Though greater far, is innocent._
> 
>  
> 
> A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning - John Donne.
> 
> Donne is speaking of 'a love so much refined, that ourselves know not what it is, inter-assurèd of the mind, care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss'. In the stanza above, he's explaining that when people feel the Earth move--tumultuous weather, earthquakes, etcetera--everyone is naturally frightened. But there's no fear in the movement of the Universe, as big as it is, the sun quietly rising and falling, the world spinning for all its ginormity. He's saying that their love is like the Universe while ordinary love is like the Earth. So, yes. Holmes and Watson. Though Greater Far, Is Innocent. 
> 
> Also: These drabbles are not sequential. Any and all Americanisms are unintentional. All grammatical/spelling errors are my own. Sherlock does not belong to me. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy.

  

 

 

 

 

 

John Watson is angry. Not angry-angry. Mt. Vesuvius, AD 79, the destruction of the Roman cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum angry. Sherlock ditched him. Again. Hared off at a moment’s notice without so much as an explanation for his “Oh!”. Hailed a cab, leaving John stranded at the scene of the crime. So what else is new?

John scours the usual places. And the unusual. Sherlock’s homeless network are real tight-lipped bastards when there’s nothing in it for them—John has a ten pound note on his person, which pales in comparison to Sherlock’s standard fifty quid—and Mycroft proves to be as insufferably vague as ever. _“While I cannot assure you that my brother is in good hands, the only danger he faces at present is the danger he poses to himself.”_

John paces. He sits. He paces some more. Makes tea twice, but neglects to drink either cup before it grows cold.

The front door opens. Closes, the sound of Sherlock’s familiar tread stoking John’s ire. He’s half mad with worry. Red in the face, fists clenched. He swears to God he will flay the man within an inch of his life.

Sherlock breezes through the kitchen. 

Ah. Well. It appears someone has beaten John to the punch. Literally. 

While his nose isn’t broken, blunt trauma has blackened both of Sherlock’s eyes. He routes around inside the freezer for the bag of thumbs he liberated from Bart’s morgue. Presses the frozen digits against his face.

“Where have you been?”

Sherlock feints around the table. John purses his lips, his glare something of a stimulant to Sherlock’s otherwise dormant sense of self-preservation. Sherlock makes his escape through the living room. 

John intercepts him on the landing. “Where, Sherlock? What happened?”

Sherlock diverts to John’s bedroom. John is hot on his heels. 

“In case you’ve forgotten, us? We’re partners.”

Sherlock rifles through John’s duffle bag of _In Case of Emergencies_. He tosses bandages, sutures, ointments, and a stethoscope over his shoulder. John reflexively catches the more fragile of the salves.

“Do you know what that means?” 

“Your question is rhetorical, John. You know I hate rhetorical devices,” he lies. “I don’t need you to lecture me on my negligent behavior this evening, thanks.” Sherlock pockets a bottle of pain-killers. ( _Like hell_ , John thinks.) Strikes out for the sofa, his _Sanctuary a la Petulance_. 

John restrains him. Sherlock fumbles the thumbs down the stairs. He does not approve of John’s approach to what Mycroft stuffily refers to as a _tête-à-tête_. Neither does he approve of John’s height advantage during an argument. They wrestle for purchase on the steps. Sharp elbows, muffled curses. But invasion of personal space is a lark; the nostalgia of Basic Training strengthens John’s resolve. 

Until.

Sherlock blinks. And he— _shit_. 

Scanning! In the middle of a row! John wonders what Sherlock finds so bloody interesting before the world’s only consulting detective wrinkles his nose, leans forward, and kisses him.

John will not be stunned right now. He can be stunned later. “Nice try,” he says. “Won’t work.”

“You asked for it.” 

John starts. Wracks his brain. ( _Wait. No. He never!_ ) File-thirteens the budding, sexual identity crisis when Sherlock endeavors to leave him to his thoughts. John holds him fast. “We aren’t done! What do I need to say, Sherlock? What do I need to do to get it through that thick skull of yours? If you leave me behind ag—“ 

Sherlock catches John’s ‘ain’ on the tip of his tongue, stepping up and into John’s mouth. Curls his lips around what would have been an exclamation point. Sips on the dregs of John’s tirade. The nigh imperceptible ‘mmpt’ of their kiss seems to echo throughout the flat. 

John Watson is not angry. He’s dazed. More than a little confused. He tries. Desperately tries to reconfigure the grounds for his rage. “Why do you keep doing that? Stop doing that.” 

“I will when you stop asking me to.” Sherlock’s fingers are gripping the pulse point of John’s wrist. 

“I’m furious, you dick. Not aroused.”

“Oh.”

That doesn’t stop Sherlock from kissing John again. And that doesn’t stop John from letting him.


	2. Skydiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh God no. Little Martin? Can you imagine that? He wouldn’t be allowed anyway, he’s got to be the grumpy Hobbit. He’d be down on the ground looking all cool and mod-like with his shades, listening to some ska going, “Yeah that looked like fun, you tw*t.” Whereas I’m there jumping around like Tigger.” - Benedict Cumberbatch on whether Martin Freeman went skydiving with him while filming in New Zealand.

“If you were skydiving,” John says, “and your parachute didn’t open, what would you do?”

Sherlock exhales through his nose. His breath tickles the hairs on the back on John’s neck. “Simple. I would land on you.” 

“You know that wouldn’t save you, right? And what am I doing on the ground?”

“Skydiving, John? Please. You have a fear of heights.” 

“I would if— _How do you—_ “

“Why else would you ask such a tedious question?”

“Yes, well. Why land on me?”

“I’m taking you with me, obviously.”

John has never felt so loved. 


	3. Light

Flashing lights. Screaming children. Foodstuff of questionable origin. Vomit. Is there any question why carnivals are Sherlock’s worst nightmare? More than the incongruous sights and the myriad of smells, there’s laughter. Loud, annoying, excessive, annoying, redundant, annoying. A far cry from _Fun for the Whole Family_ , as the flyer in John’s back pocket guarantees. Masochists survive the Tilt-O-Whirl, clinging to one another for support. Secret sweethearts are ushered from the Hall of Mirrors under penalty of arrest for indecent exposure.

Gaiety countermands the fear of faulty equipment. Morons.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at a party of clowns. They tempt passerby with overpriced balloon animals he would sooner pop than accept graciously. If they touch him, he will retaliate in one of fifty-seven ways. Fifteen of which are lethal. 

John steers Sherlock in the opposite direction. He scans the crowd for signs of their quarry. “This was your idea,” he reminds him. “I’m not even sure this qualifies as a three so you must be pretty damn desperate—“ Sherlock seethes and John swallows the unnecessary commentary. “Right.” Gestures with his chin, where the Miss Congeniality of the fairgrounds glitzes and glams, illustrious against the night sky. “That our culprit?” 

Ed Banifacious. A mediocre pickpocket. Deductions regarding a string of clientele and a recent bout of petty thefts. Serial killers aren’t as thick in London as they once were—Sherlock hates himself as the bane of his existence—and _beggars can’t be choosers_ , as John so eloquently ridiculed his pre-boredom turmoil earlier that morning. 

Banifacious monopolizes the Ferris Wheel. Very obvious and very dull, but what in the hell else is Sherlock supposed to do? Molly banned him from the mortuary at Bart’s due to his attempted theft of a dermoid ovarian cyst in the middle of (what she believed to be) a routine autopsy. 

“Damn it,” Sherlock says with contempt.

John looks back and forth from the Ferris Wheel to Sherlock. “What?”

“Bloody human rotisserie.”

“Are you…?” 

“Of course not.”

Sherlock can practically hear the cogs turning in John’s head. Archaic and rusty and _good God_ it pains him to listen to John think. Everything the Ferris Wheel incorporates, utter repugnance in Sherlock’s limited experience. Confined spaces. Repetition. Tedium. Comprehension, a frown on John’s face when he finally realises he’ll be accompanying the only grown man he knows who handles boredom about as well as a Attention Deficit Hyperactive two-year-old on the verge of a sugar-induced coma. 

John swears. “You know. We don’t have to apprehend him now. Right now. We could wait.”

Sherlock never waits.

He weaves through a gaggle of schoolgirls to jump queue in front of a young couple. “My apologies.” Like he’s stepped on a cockroach. Though, a cockroach would merit a modicum of Sherlock’s attention out of sheer curiosity, but teenagers are exceptionally low on Sherlock’s list of _Fucks To Give_. Unless, of course, they’ve committed murder. His smile is infectious, borderline manic. He watches his prey board the Ferris Wheel and he plans to catch him in the act. Decidedly less boring than waiting him out.

“Oi! We were here first!” 

“Clearly.” Sherlock chauffeurs John toward the open seat. His genteel tone of voice is disarming. Enough so that John’s sense of fair play is overruled.

“My girlfriend wants to ride!” the skid mark on the pants of adolescent pubescence complains.

“So does my partner.”

“Of course,” John mutters, sitting with his hands in his lap. Banifacious scrutinizes him unabashedly. 

 _There are worse things_ , John thinks when the thief in question has suffered the ol’ one-two courtesy John’s left hook and Sherlock’s pilfered set of handcuffs, _than a klepto believing us to be a couple._

John takes in the view. Sherlock plays _Words with Friends_ on his mobile. (I.e., _Words with John_ ). His munificent partner in crime receives the notification wherein Sherlock employs XI for the win. And this, John thinks, is their life in a nutshell. 


	4. Solace

Sherlock is rattling off the components of honey-based glue when he notices John’s absence. John’s disinterest in monosaccharides, disaccharides, and oligosaccharides is mildly irritating, but Sherlock has bee pheromones to introduce to the turkey legs John maybe-probably won’t eat if Sherlock hides them behind the wenis samples on the second shelf in the refrigerator. 

Seven hours later, Sherlock is combing the flat for morphine. ( _Nothing recreational, John!_ ) He starts upon spotting John lying facedown on the couch.

Sherlock semi-wonders how long John’s been moping in his spot without notifying him that, _Hey. I’m within shouting distance. Your elucidation on how honeybees transform saccharides into honey by a process of regurgitation was riveting. Do continue._

It’s been five minutes. John hasn’t moved. Sherlock is getting bored. 

“John?”

No answer. 

He’s not dead, as indicated by the sigh muted against the leather cushions.

It occurs to Sherlock that John is upset. It irks him that John is wasting valuable bee larva/morphine amalgamation time with his impermissible feelings. It also occurs to Sherlock that if he takes it upon himself to engage John in an empathetic manner, his wobbly will pass and Sherlock can get back to work. And John can listen. Because Sherlock is benevolent like that. 

It occurs to Sherlock again—that makes three, a number Sherlock finds pleasing—that he doesn’t know how to be effectively comforting. Compromised, sure. Innocent, no problem. Charming, hell yes. He hasn’t had to resort to comforting in years. Not that he can remember, anyway. Must’ve deleted it. Nothing the internet can’t fix. 

Sherlock fishes his mobile from the pocket of his robe. He Googles _How to comfort a friend?_ and skims the search results. Yes. Okay. Good. He can do this.

“John…” Sherlock attempts. He sweeps his eyes up and down the couch. No place to sit. John is being unaccommodating. Perches on the edge of the table instead. Pats John’s shoulder three times. Because three is always nice. ( _Triple homicide, mmm._ ) “…I understand.” Sherlock doesn’t, of course, but he also doesn’t care. “It will be okay.” 

In all likelihood, it won’t. 

John is trembling. Sherlock withdraws his hand, alarmed _._  

John rolls over on his back. He clutches his stomach, laughter bubbling between his lips. “You tit!” 

Sherlock waits for John to get a hold of himself. “I thought you were in distress.”

This only makes John laugh harder.

Sherlock is not amused. “If you’re quite finished, I have larva to attend to.”

John grabs the sleeve of his robe. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he titters. Actually titters. Sherlock has never heard a man giggle like John Watson. He’s never been known to find solace in what can arguably be described as annoying, either. But John isn’t annoying. He’s fascinating. Loyal. An enigma. ( _Three_.) “I had the worst day. Then you—“ He snorts. “— _you!_ Trying to make me feel better. And making an arse of yourself in the process.”

Arse of himself?

But John is smiling. And there’s honey in the kitchen. So it could be worse. 

Sherlock allows the arse comment to slide. If it makes John happy, it makes him happy. 

The fact that this is true genuinely surprises Sherlock; Vivaldi’s _Summer_ courses through his veins.


	5. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I’ve literally been staring at br0-Harry’s The Kiss animation for over thirty minutes. If you have not seen it, go. Do. Now. If you have seen it, I can only hope I’ve done br0-Harry’s artwork a tenth of the justice it deserves.

He’s dreaming. He must be dreaming.

John opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t. He won’t. Not yet. Of the hallucinations that plague his waking eyes, _Sherlock_. Sherlock as John once remembered him annuls the fear of losing his shit. He fights to sustain the phantasm with the desperation of a drowning man, willing Sherlock to linger because no blood, no broken pieces, all there was and will be no more.

It’s decimating. How John envisions him so clearly. A merger of yesterdays, resonating eternal between his ears. Penetrating his frontal lobe in synch with the beating on his heart. The past colligates with the present and he knows he’s off the deep end. But he can’t. There are no words. No real words.

Real.  _This can’t be real_ , he thinks.

But he wants. His body, his soul aches with the whole of it.

Sherlock smiles. Soft. Small. Evocative.

Christ, he can’t help himself.

John understands the heart cannot feel pain. Not technically. Angina pectoris, a lack of blood, a lack of oxygen. Generally due to obstruction or spasms of the coronary arteries. _Sentiment_ , Sherlock would say. _Pointless_.

Bastard.

John hesitates. _Please, God, don't let him disappear._ He’s never prayed for anything so earnestly in his life. Not even when he was dying in the desert in Afghanistan.

A touch. A caress. 

The turning point. The realization. The fourth movement of a symphony. Allegro, maybe? Hell if he knows. Sherlock would. He would know. John makes a mental note to ask him later and the very idea of _later_ is quite possibly the most beautiful, precious, invaluable notion John has ever known.

His hands. Validating that which can’t be true, but is. It is tue. Sherlock, drinking him in, legitimate tenderness and honest affirmation. For the first time since John unwittingly/willingly devoted his life to his flatmate, he sees in Sherlock his consummate loyalty—his love—mirrored back at him. And suddenly, it was worth it. All of it. The agony. The despair. The months of despondency.

Sherlock’s eyes are unguarded. John catches a glimpse of his great heart as well as his great brain. It damn near undoes him.

He kisses Sherlock’s lips with all the palliative reverence he can muster. Warm. Chaste. He revels in the tentative breath shared between the two of them. A promise. A pledge. Short and sweet and more alluringly provocative than he could have imagined, fever dreams of passion incomparable to the titillation of naked affection. Their bodies thrum with the implications.

John subsides. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse. A delicate lure beneath his fingertips. He justly believes he will protect him and his carotid artery forever.

Sherlock looks at John not unlike he surveys a crime scene. He says nothing. And it means everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was worth a wound; it was worth many wounds; to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.
> 
> Dr. Watson: The Adventures oh the Three Garridebs


	6. Flowers

John swears he will rue the day Sherlock cross-examines a child. Yes, cross-examine. Not question, not talk. Cross-examine. Because Sherlock neither _questions_  nor _talks_ ; he deduces, he deciphers, he disassembles. But lives are on the line. And as the eleventh hour comes to a head, as it is wont to do, John gives Sherlock his blessing ( _Not that he needs it._ ) to enter the Yard’s interrogation room, doom and gloom writ upon his brow. 

The girl—Amanda Vineyard is her name—is sitting on her knees. Steadily demolishing a bouquet of flowers. Buttercups, in particular. The complementary card reads: _Tears are feelings we can’t say._ (Sally agreed to donate Anderson’s not-so-secret Valentine to the cause.) Amanda scatters a handful of petals across the table when Sherlock shuts the door behind him. She does not acknowledge his presence otherwise. 

Sherlock sits. “The Decision of the Flower.”

“He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not.”

“How familiar are you with buttercups?”

“They’re yellow.”

Sherlock shoots her a withering look. “Buttercups are dicots,” he presses on. “Petals multiples of four or five. In this case, five.” He nicks a buttercup from the vase.

Amanda’s sanguine eyes are big and bright under the fluorescent lights. 

“Which means that if one intends to predict the outcome of He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, one may cheat.” Pluck. “Monocot, dicot. Multiples of three, multiples of four or five.” Pluck. “As for buttercups: he loves me, he loves me not.” Pluck. “He loves me, he loves me not.” Pluck. “He loves me.” Pluck. “One, two, three, four, five. I rest my case.”

Amanda is in awe. 

“Tell me what you know of Mr. Woodley and I’ll show you again.”

“Why would you play again if you already know he loves you?”

The question stumps Sherlock. It stumps him for the next fifty-five years. 


	7. Handcuffs

“Your hands are freezing,” Sherlock complains. “I bought you gloves. Why aren’t you wearing your gloves?”

John pins Sherlock against the bathroom door. “Jesus, forget the gloves. This would be next to impossible if—“

“Clever accessory, gloves. You can put them on and take them off.”

“Smart arse.”

Sherlock groans, braces his feet. “John. The disseverment of your relationship with Jessica—“

“Samantha.”

“—Samantha is not my fault.”

“Yeah, but you and me? Like this? All you.”

“She jumped to conclusions.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“You were the one who…why are you stopping?”

“My shoulder’s tired.”

“Ah. Allow me.”

John hands Sherlock the lockpick. He flexes his aching fingers. Watches Sherlock work magic in the bathroom mirror. Despite his inability to see what he’s doing, handcuffed back to back as they are, Sherlock handles the tool with relative ease. He also takes his revenge on John, pressuring him to kneel on the edge of the tub, his elbows akimbo. ( _Leverage, John!_ ) It’s fine; braving Sherlock’s flights of fancy in the face of death and murder and gore of indeterminate sums, but flagging down a cab double-handcuffed to another human being is next to impossible, as it happens.

Sure, they’re lucky to be alive. Lucky to have escaped whatever Abe Slaney had in store for them. But handcuffs? Really? John feels as if he’s the butt of some kind of cosmic joke on his manhood.

The handcuffs clatter to the floor.

“Wow.” John massages his wrists. Stands up straight. “You’re incredible.”

Sherlock opens the door. “I do have a basic understanding of—“

Mrs. Hudson is staring at them, blushing like a Worcestershire orchard before harvest.

John revisits their conversation. “Son of a bitch,” he says. 


	8. Innocence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some Kid!lock.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Sherlock asks.

It’s the seventh of June. Mrs. Hudson’s banana popsicles glisten dazzlingly in the noonday sun. 

John fails to make Sherlock understand the concept of _Star Wars._ Sherlock refuses to duel with him as he wields his dessert, complete with “wruu, ksch” sound effects. 

“I don’t know.” John licks popsicle juice off his knuckle. “Never really thought about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I’ll do what I want.” Sherlock has spent forty-eight days away from home. Away from John, who will vomit unapologetically when caustic what-ifs rake his stomach that night. Sharp, icy. He loses his appetite for the time being. _Sherlock isn’t crazy. Sherlock isn’t going anywhere ever again,_ he's convinced. Wind chimes dollop the lag in conversation. Buzzing bees and hooded mergansers and John can hear Mrs. Hudson’s radio playing in the kitchen. When he formulates a response that will assuage Sherlock’s oblique concern, he promises, “Like take care of you.” 

It’s the first time Sherlock kisses him. His lips are cold and wet on John’s cheek. The smell of bananas and summer sweat. 


	9. Asexual

John Watson has ruined Sherlock Holmes' life. Sexual orientation notwithstanding. 

Sherlock disparages the human race its be-all and end-all fascination with sex. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin. Sex has never appealed to him on a level befitting his intellect and while he is no stranger to masturbation—his transport is disappointingly normal at times—he is neither repulsed nor intrigued by his body’s intrinsic desire to reproduce. It’s nature. It’s science. It’s _average_. Sherlock cares less about his sex life than he does about teenagers. (Though, his sex life and murder? Could be interesting.)

“I’m a whole person,” Sherlock announces out of the blue. 

John is mopping the kitchen floor. If grinding a wet rag against the linoleum with the heel of his bare foot can be called mopping. He stops. Blinks at Sherlock, who is sitting in his chair. John shifts his weight. His toes stick to the gelid tiles. “Congratulations.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I don’t believe people come in halves,” he reiterates. 

“Okay.” 

John is clearly lost. Sherlock bemoans his fate. Pushes himself to stand. Discards his shoes so that he may join John in the kitchen. 

John grins at him, unduly proud of Sherlock’s thoughtfulness. If sparing the soles of his _Crockett & Jones_ Leeds John’s acerbic cocktail of multi-surface cleaners can be called thoughtful. What John doesn’t know can’t— 

“Finest European tanneries, indeed.” John sees right through him. 

“God, you fascinate me,” Sherlock whispers with conviction, edging closer. If ‘ _fascinate_ ’ can be called ‘ _enable_ ’ or ‘ _stimulate_ ’ or ‘ _arouse_ ’. (Which, in this case, yes. They’re synonymous.) Sherlock Holmes may be asexual, but he is also irrevocably in love. There is no negation in that. 


	10. Voicemail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for nasty language.

Sherlock does not answer his phone. 

This makes John angry. ( _Seriously, what’s the point of purchasing a mobile capable of launching itself into geosynchronous orbit? Bloody hell_.) So John, learned in cheek, implements revenge. He listens to the prompt: 'You’ve reached Sherlock Holmes. Intrigue me. Your life may depend on it.' 

 _Beep._  

“Hi, Sherlock. It’s me. John. Your flatmate. Call me back if you don’t get this message.” John pockets his mobile and goes about his ten-steps-behind business. Takes comfort in the fact that the impracticality of his request is percolating on Sherlock’s answerphone like spoiled milk in direct sunlight. 

Sherlock does not mention the message. 

One week. Two weeks go by. 

They’re eating dinner at Angelo’s when he snaps. “I can’t _fucking_ call you back if I don’t get the _fucking_ message, John!” Sherlock breathes deeply through his nose. Pugnacious, hammers the table with his fist. “I hope you choke,” he hisses between his teeth.  

John just smiles. Cuts his ravioli into manageable, bite-sized pieces. 


	11. Coffin

_Someone got lucky_ , is the first thought that crosses John’s mind. The feel of ( _Katie? Cathy? Catherine? Catherine._ ) soft and warm and spooning him from behind. 

John’s hangover rivets his eyeballs from the inside out. His head throbs with the beating of his heart. It’s been a long time since...well. Bedding a woman he barely knows, while not as rare as him drunk off his arse, is something of a throwback to his pre-Afghanistan days. 

John cracks a smile. _Still got it_ , he congratulates himself.

Although, his shoulder is killing him, it's hot as hell, and Catherine’s mattress is utter shit. 

John wants to go home.

 _God, I'm old,_ he laments.

He squeezes Catherine’s voluptuous rear end. A sort of farewell to his youth. 

A deeply familiar “Oh!” in his ear.

Catherine’s arse is wearing Sherlock’s pants. 

“You’re awake,” Sherlock gasps. “What do you remember?” 

“Not you!” John scrambles out of bed— _Reeling. Pain._ _Damn it!_ His follicles are probably bleeding from the impact. 

“Easy!” 

“Where are we? Where’s Catherine?” 

“You mean Brenda.” 

“Sure. Fine. Brenda.” 

“That was last night, John. Do keep up.” When John does not respond immediately, Sherlock summarizes, “Grave robbers.” 

That’s right. They’re trapped. Inside a coffin. Because _someone_ forgot to put their mobile on silent. 

“Oh my God. Are we running out of air?” 

Sherlock says nothing. It’s too dark to see so John can only assume his silence, a rarity in and of itself under the circumstances, is Sherlock’s way of confirming that there is a finite supply of oxygen. 

Maths. Given the area of the coffin’s interior, adding the respiratory rate of—

 _Oh no_ , John panics. _We’ve not long left._ He weighs and considers. ( _No, yes! Lie quietly, keep calm. Shallow breaths._ ) Sherlock apparently doesn’t give a toss. That or he’s deleted all traces of self preservation because he's panting from the heat like air hunger doesn’t faze him in the slightest. 

Might try and expedite the process. Enjoy watching John lose consciousness, recording details in a sub-atrium of his mind palace. 

Then it clicks. 

John pointedly inhales and exhales. 

“Two minutes.”  

John will not acknowledge the tinge of pride he hears in Sherlock’s voice. They’re stripped to their underthings, mildly concussed, sweating bullets, and they don’t have the leverage to kick the coffin open. Sherlock’s approval can’t be taking precedence. It just can’t. 

“We have an hour before they burry us alive.” Sherlock’s vocal chords make sweet, sweet love to John’s cochlea. 

“Thank God for small mercies.” 

Sherlock falls silent, much to John’s consternation. Now that he isn’t dying of cerebral hypoxia, he begins to notice _things_. He can’t move or see and the smell of nonenal is particularly arresting. All that’s left is touch and Jesus Christ if he isn’t painfully aware of every inch of Sherlock’s sex. He needs a distraction. Something to keep his mind on the heterosexual agenda. Because he is. Heterosexual, of course. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Hm?” Like they’re sunbathing on a beach in Porto-Pollo. 

Sherlock’s pale chest exposed to the elements. John would be forced to apply SPF 50 every hour on the hour because Sherlock wouldn’t do it because Sherlock is stupid and he would blister and die of skin cancer and then what was John supposed to do? 

John Watson fully understands the meaning of warped priorities. 


	12. Hysterics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a conclusion to Coffin. I apologize for the randomness--for any drabbles that are predominantly strange. I'm kind of an oddball. But I like me so that's okay.

Sherlock and John are rescued shortly thereafter.

They scramble out of the coffin in naught but their knickers. Lestrade offers Sherlock his overcoat, John his suit jacket, awkwardly respecting their privacy while he phones for an ambulance. “Just…” He’s at a loss. “…just stay where you are.” Greg excuses himself, his mobile pinned against his ear. 

Sherlock and John sprawl out on the dais. They stretch their arms and legs at their leisure. Giggling inappropriately. _Shock,_ John surmises. Or maybe they’re insane. A consulting detective who gets off on murder and an adrenaline junkie with a soft spot for a mad genius with a superiority complex the size of Great Britain. 

They grin inanely at one another. John is three sheets to the wind. “Hey.” He prods Sherlock’s calf with his foot. “It’s not how you die that matters.” 

Sherlock blinks at him. 

“It’s who you take with you.” 

Sherlock snorts unbecomingly. They descend into peals laughter. 

“Why did John fall off the swing?” is Sherlock’s rejoinder. 

John marvels. Never, not once, has Sherlock attempted to tell a joke so far removed from the spectrum of gallows humor. He opens and closes his mouth, unsure. 

“Because John has no arms.” 

“That. Has got to be the worst punch line ever.” John is in tears. 

Sherlock, buoyed by his reaction, says, “Knock-knock.” 

“Who’s there?”

“Not John.” 

The medics treat them for hysteria. 


	13. Note

_Do not drink if you value your life. – S_  

John reads the sticky note in reference to the milk. Worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Bites down hard to stymie foul language swarming inside his mouth. He slams the refrigerator door shut.

 

 

 _Do not touch if you value yours._  

Sherlock resists tampering with the new carton of milk. John is a man of his word and while Sherlock has a tendency to fight fire with fire, he knows better than to jeopardize John’s tea time.

 

 

 _Do not look in the bottom drawer. – S_  

John looks. 

 _I hate you._ he pens over Sherlock’s tidy scrawl.

 

 

 _Eat._  

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He peels John’s reminder off the jar of testicles. Crumples the sticky in his fist. But he doesn’t throw it away.

 

 

 _I hate bananas. Why do you keep buying bananas? – S_  

John stows his purchase in the fruit and veggie compartment. He smiles ear to ear.

 

 

 _I’m not sorry. – S_  

John sighs. He accepts the proffered beer anyway.

 

 

John avoids opening the refrigerator after Sherlock’s suicide. _I’m not sorry. – S_ still clings to the unopened cans of beer.

 

 

Three months after Sherlock’s return, John is bound and determined to force-feed his on-again/off-again flatmate Mrs. Hudson’s shepherd’s pie come hell or high water. He balks when he spies Sherlock’s six-pack of contrition shoved behind a severed leg. The _not_ has been marked out.

 

 

 _I love you, too._

Sherlock stands and stares like a man who’s deciding what he wants for dinner. He’s not hungry. 


	14. Again

John kisses Sherlock on the cheek. 

He endevors to kiss him on a regular basis, The Work permitting. Sherlock’s sleep schedule is haphazard at best, but Sherlock conducting experiments at the kitchen table in the early A.M. is as certain as gridlock at rush-hour. His lack of response to John’s display of affection is typical. He has his reasons for vocalizing his approval ( _Wants something._ ) or disapproval ( _Being a prick._ ), but today he says, “The Law of Diminishing Returns.” 

John sets the kettle to boil. Glances at Sherlock over his shoulder. 

He’s focused on a tissue sample, peering through the lens of his microscope.  

“Hm?” 

“The Law of Diminishing Returns.” Sherlock hates repeating himself. As he deigns it necessary to add, “Doesn’t apply to you,” he minds his tone. 

John smiles. From what he remembers of rudimentary economics, _the application of effort toward a project or goal and its declination after a certain level of result is achieved_. Which, if John’s interpreted Sherlock’s sentiment correctly, means their relationship hasn’t plateaued since its consummation. It’s Sherlock’s way of saying John isn’t boring. _They_ aren’t boring. It’s Sherlock’s way of saying: _Again, John._  

John finishes preparing the tea. Arranges their cups side by side. He does not wait for Sherlock to acknowledge his proximity because Sherlock’s perception of time is damnably skewed when he’s working and it’s likely John will be waiting on Sherlock’s consent for twenty-plus minutes if that's the case. John nuzzles Sherlock’s temple with the end of his nose. Brushes his lips against the lobe of his ear. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. 

“Yes,” John murmurs. “My thoughts exactly.” 


	15. Skull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the somewhat directionless chapter. The John to my Sherlock needed me tonight and she takes priority to my mediocre writing. Please enjoy what I was able to finish!

Sherlock isn’t someone John would consider brimming with holiday spirit so he’s gobsmacked when he finds Billy the skull dressed as Santa on the eve of Christmas. “What’s this?” John sips his wine wile he totters in front of the hearth, waiting for Jeanette. 

“I’m not allowed to contribute to the festivities?” Sherlock stares blankly out the window. 

John doesn’t have the heart to argue with him. Sherlock’s mobile hasn’t moaned in over a month and he’s convinced Sherlock’s lethargy stems from Irene Adler’s radio silence. John straightens Billy’s hat. He drops the conversation.

 

 

“Sherlock.” John points. “Why is Billy covered in—I hope that’s candy.” 

“It’s Rare Disease Day, John,” Sherlock announces from the bedroom. 

“Silly me. Completely slipped my mind. Don’t think measles is a rare disease, though.” 

“Not measles. Morgellons.” Like John should know better. 

“Oh, of course.” He pries a candy from Billy’s temporal bone. “Delusional infestations count, do they?” 

Sherlock pokes his head in the kitchen long enough to beckon John with an impatient, but elegant, wave of his hand. “Stop diagnosing inanimate objects. I need you.” 

John is nothing if not subservient.

 

 

Ironically enough, Sherlock does not utilize Billy on Halloween. “Predictable,” is his excuse. 

John fucking loves this man. 


	16. Tights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more Kid!lock.
> 
> Additional note: There will be no update tomorrow. I will be traveling.

Sherlock pages John on the answer phone. He sounds prissy and pretentious in lieu of his “Help.” and the urge to strangle him is immense. John shuffles down the hall, his blanket trailing behind him on the floor at a snail’s pace. Lifts the receiver from its cradle. “Sh’lock?” he croaks. “Are you okay?” 

Of course he isn’t.  

John wiggles his feet inside a pair of trainers, heel-counters to insoles, dismissing the laces altogether. His throat hurts. His body is wracked with chills. Overcomes the urge to hurl as he recalls Sherlock’s declaration:  _“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, John.”_ His boldfaced lie facilitates his graduation from a minor inconvenience to a full-blown nuisance. 

John shucks his blanket in the foyer. Steps outside. The humidity of July is unprecedented. He all but wades the half-mile trek over the hill. He knocks twice before Sherlock draws the curtains to verify that, _yes._  It’s John who stands lethargic square on Mrs. Hudson’s _Welcome_ mat. 

Sherlock opens the door a crack. Doesn’t let him in. 

John assumes he’s broken something. 

“You’re still sick.” Sherlock has never stated the obvious before. 

“Okay. What’s wrong?” John doesn’t have the energy to wrest a confession from Sherlock. The sight of him cowed and trembling lances his heart so he dismisses wheedling in favor of silence. Waits patiently for him to either shut him out or come clean. 

“Tights.” 

“What?” 

“He asked me if I like to wear tights.” 

Sherlock’s words hang in the muggy air between them, amorphous and nonsensical. John shakes his head. “Who asked you about tights?” 

Sherlock stubbornly refuses to tattle. 

John’s noblesse oblige waylays the common cold. Makes his eyes water and his ears roar. He does not force himself inside Mrs. Hudson’s home even though he wants to yank the landline off the wall. Does not chastise Sherlock for speaking with he whom John henceforth refers to as _That Psychopath_. No, he keeps his distance. Shares with Sherlock a barrage of insults should Jim call again. 

John vows. He will not allow Sherlock to fall victim to unnecessary cruelty. Not as long as he’s around to soften the blow. 


	17. Prank

When Sherlock leaves his mobile unattended in order to wash the remnants of a pig fetus out of his hair— _don’t ask_ —John jumps at the opportunity to play a prank on him. Technology and John don’t always jive, but he’s been sitting on this gag for well over two months now. He’s practiced on his own mobile enough to nail the mechanics within a matter of seconds. 

Sherlock is none the wiser. Mostly because his experiment has been invalidated. He’s pissy about the spattering of fetus on the kitchen ceiling and a man’s alibi is in jeopardy— _John doesn’t even want to know_ —so he grabs his coat and leaves for Bart’s, conveniently unsuspicious. 

After an hour of waiting for Sherlock to text whatever his demands for the day may be, needs must. John is remiss to commence the practical joke himself, but it's imperative Sherlock texts him before he texts anyone else. He may be an arse, but he’s _his_ arse. To inadvertently embarrass Sherlock by way of Lestrade or Molly or Mycroft (Not that Sherlock would text Mycroft.) is the last thing John wants. 

He texts,  _Any progress?_  

Sherlock replies, 

**I am the Walrus, John.**

**SH**  

 

John snickers. _Really?_ he texts back. _Since when?_

 

**John.**

**SH**

 

**Why does my mobile autocorrect I am the Walrus to I am the Walrus?**

**SH**

**Oblivious**

**Obfuscate**

**FUCK**

 

John is crying.

 

**O B V I O U S L Y into I am the Walrus?**

**SH**

 

**I hate you. And the Beetles.**

**SH**

 

Sherlock strikes back three weeks later. John suspects nothing.

 

**The victim isn’t Catholic. She wears a St. Christopher pendant for sentimental reasons, as evidenced by the engraving. Love Sydney. Her mother **’s name.** A memento, then. The victim’s body was found in the confessional. The killer’s first mistake. He thought she was Catholic when she was clearly Jewish.**

**SH**

 

 _Brilliant, Sherlock._  John hits send before he realizes that he actually text,  _Suck my penis, Sherlock._

 

**John, this is neither the time nor the place.**

**SH**

 

John turns red in the face. _You bastard._  he types. He sends,  _You handsome devil._  

John groans.

 

**You’re making me uncomfortable, John.**

**SH**

 

 _No!_ John composes. (So far, so good.) _You did this!_ (Yes. Okay.) _You stole my—phone_ is autocorrected to _heart_ and John hits send before he can cancel the message.

 

**Discussing the parameters of our relationship via text? I’m surprised at you.**

**SH**

 

The _hate_ in _I hate you._ is autocorrected to _love_ for  _I love you._  

John is laughing in spite of himself. How extensively did Sherlock tamper with his mobile? 

 

**I know.**

**SH**

 

John’s smile is unparalleled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: I know it's Beatles, not Beetles. But Sherlock? Not so much.


	18. iPod

Sherlock has an iPod. 

This intrigues John. Because of reasons. 

John asks what genre of music he prefers to listens to and Sherlock replies, “Black, two sugars.” 

 _So it’s his own fault,_ John thinks, sneaking into Sherlock’s bedroom while Sherlock harangues Lestrade for cold case files at the Yard. 

John scrolls through a collection of classical music. Typical. Obvious. There has to be something more! Something incriminating! Like Country or Rap or that Berber kid. John giggles to himself at the thought. He skims Sherlock’s assortment of Chopin and Beethoven. 

But wait. Track01. No artist, no title. John is delightfully curious. 

He hits play. Purses his lips when he concludes he’s not listening to music. It’s...footsteps. A door opening, closing, and silence. 

John uncovers a dozen analogous tracks on an untitled playlist in Sherlock’s library. More footsteps. The sound of newspaper pages rifling. A muffled television programme and a whistling tea kettle. At first, John suspects they’re empirical evidence of criminal activity. His theory falls flat when he distinguishes the sound of a shower running. Their shower running, to be precise. He can hear the familiar rattle of the pipes in the walls. 

He plays Track01 again. 

He counts seventeen steps. Their steps. 

John’s stomach lurches to one side, noticing a pattern. Showers less than ten minutes long. A periodic crackle of newsprint, not a haphazard ransacking for obituaries out of sheer boredom. The susurrus of what Sherlock refers to as crap telly. 

Steady breathing. John's breathing. 

These are all, every last one, recordings of John. 

“Will you forgive me if I tell you I have a very good explanation for my invasion of your privacy?” Sherlock asks when he comes home to find John waiting for him in the living room, his iPod clutched in John’s fist. He’s dimly repentant. Does not believe he’s crossed boundaries that don’t warrant crossing to begin with. Sherlock regards John with mild concern. His apology will not be sincere, if John demands one of him, but he will make an attempt because Sherlock is Sherlock and John is John and Sherlock’s iPod hits the floor in a jarring moment of clarity. 

John kisses Sherlock. Swiftly. Once. Swallowing Sherlock’s surprise and _God_ it thrills him down to the soles of his feet to surprise Sherlock Holmes. John’s toes curl in his shoes. “Shit, shit,” he gasps, torn between beating a hasty retreat and—kisses him again. Pulls Sherlock closer, groaning with the futility of his restraint. 

John is suckling Sherlock’s bottom lip when it hits him that Sherlock isn’t kissing back.  

“Oh, God, I’m—“ Sorry? Confused? An idiot? All of the above? 

“No, it’s—“ The ability to speak a complete sentence seems to have abandoned them both. Sherlock is panting, John is panting, and they cling to one another like they’ll fly to pieces if they let go. Too warm and distinctly uncomfortable and love coils heavy in John’s chest, taut between his ribs. He wants he choke on it. Lose himself in it. Because something— _anything_ —is better than teetering on the edge of the universe. 

Sherlock pushes John out of his way. 

John can’t think for all the _Damn it!_ s congealing his thoughts. 

Sherlock retrieves his iPod. Checks to see if it still works. Then he claims John’s mouth, a smug-arse, “You were saying?” prefacing the dance of tongue on tongue. The scrape of teeth and breathless curses and backhand compliments in the heat of the moment. 

“You bastard,” John says. “You mad bastard.” 

Because Sherlock already has a massive ego and if John knows Sherlock as well as he thinks he does, he’s recording them snogging. 

Undeterred by John’s humbling commentary, Track42 has a flattering number of plays by the end of the week. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: I know it's Bieber, not Berber. Oh, those boys. Beetles and the Berber.


	19. Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, yet again, for failing to update as planned. I will do my best to post chapters daily throughout Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thank you for your patience! Have some semi-angst!

Sherlock grabs his violin. 

He poises to play. Firm bearing, aesthetic lines. Thoughts molten at the base of his skull. Buzzing, chafing. And he can feel the coalescence of unwarranted deductions dripping down his spine, welding his vertebra together. Everything and everyone, crowding in, devouring rational thought. Devouring the cornerstone of his mind palace. 

Bow in hand. Limber fingers. He intends to pour is very soul into unearthly screeches until he feels like a real person again. 

But no. He can’t. 

Eyes wild and feral. The streetlights outside illuminate the fray of his hair. 

John is sitting in his chair. Asleep. 

Sherlock is gasping. Ragged exhalations harmonize with John’s bass snoring. His knuckles ache. He draws his bow against the strings, elevates his elbow, inclines the pale column of his throat. Tendons visible in his neck. His fingertips scream against the fretboad, but he presses harder. 

He trembles. A clear, sharp squeak. A prelude to the chaos within. 

But John. 

He’s sleeping. So soundly. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. 

He puts his violin away. Feels not-exactly-guilty for John’s waiting up. Not his fault. (Conversely, he hopes it is. Hopes everything John does is his fault.) 

Sherlock touches the top of John’s head. 

John murmurs his name. 

Sherlock has never generated anything more beautiful. 


	20. Whisper

“You want to know what I think?” 

“Not particularly, no.” 

John huffs. Loudly. He makes himself a cup of tea. Loudly. Sits in his chair. Loudly. Peruses the _Daily Mail_. Loudly. 

Sherlock hangs his head, bracing himself against the mantle. An array of crime scene photographs are taped to the mirror and Sherlock, for the life of him, can’t make heads or tails of the killer’s incentive. The murders are gallingly random and nothing connects the victims aside from what John inanely refers to as _Dancing Men_. A branding on the backs of their shoulders and thighs. 

Sherlock glares at John from under his arm. 

John crosses his legs. Not loudly, but fussily, which might as well be loud for all its exaggeration. 

“What, whaaat?” Sherlock whinges. “What do you think?” 

“Nope.” John pops his P. 

Sherlock rips the paper out of John’s hands. John is neither surprised nor incensed by Sherlock’s behavior. His hissy fits are old hat, now. “Yes!” Sherlock is persistent. Claws at the arms of John’s chair. Leans forward in an attempt to glean John’s secret telepathically. Which, of course, doesn’t work. But Sherlock can dream. He barks, “Tell me!”  

“Why should I?” 

Sherlock sees red. “John!” 

“No.” 

“John.” 

“No.” 

“John.” 

“NO.” 

“I can do this all day.” 

“I’m a younger brother, too,” John reminds him. “Be my guest.” 

Sherlock resorts to a tactic better suited below the belt. He whispers in John’s ear, _“Tell me.”_ Exhales lasciviously. 

John twitches. Pins his ear against his shoulder. 

Sherlock respires an “Ah” for a particularly breathy “I” and John jerks his head sideways, knocking their noses together. Sherlock chuckles darkly. Switches to his other ear. “I really want to know, John.” Lays the H on thick, his lips caressing the shell of John’s ear. Another “Ah” and John is shrinking in his seat. Sherlock chases after him, back hunched, his mouthful of air hot and titillating. _“I need to knooow.”_  

“Fine!” John screams. Kicks Sherlock off. “Jesus! Just stop with the whispering. You know how much I hate that.” 

Sherlock fixes the cuff of his shirt. He will admit. Stumbling upon John’s unusually ticklish ears while hiding in the closet of an assassin returning home sooner than anticipated was unsavory at the time. But now Sherlock finds the revelation—he decides on the word _empowering_. 

It’s a good choice, really. Because when they commit to a relationship, Sherlock loves to leave John keening (Loudly.) in the wake of a well-issued whisper. 


	21. Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! For those of you who aren't American: Happy Thursday!

Sherlock’s boyhood room is nothing like John imagines. 

No petrified specimens, no insects pinned to corkboards. No taxidermied rodents, no _My_   _First Chemistry Set._  No tomes with feathers or bones bookmarking his favorite passages, his favorite anything. 

The room is neat. Orderly. Boring. Mistaken for Sherlock’s proclivity for sleepless nights. But then John realizes that there is nothing about Sherlock’s old bedroom that signifies he spent any amount of time experimenting on the neighbor’s cat—a tale with which Mummy regaled John over the course of the evening. The room is wanting, for lack of a better word. Baker Street has Sherlock’s fingerprints all over it. From the bullet holes in the wall to the creepy, blood-spatter shower curtains. 

But this? White paint, white bedclothes, and an original Thomas Kindade painting? Hardly. 

Sherlock knows what John is thinking. Probably based on the hue of his tracheas or something. “Redecorated.” 

John finds Sherlock’s disengaged tone of voice kind of sad. 

Sherlock sits on his bed. Steeples his fingers in his marked prayer-position. 

“I’m—“      

“Don’t,” Sherlock says waspishly. “I’m in no mood for your sympathy.” 

“Empathy?” John offers. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows quiver. A tic as close to an amused expression as John will engender on the estate. “Yes. Do tell me about the time your mother blackmailed you into attending a birthday party you have no interest in celebrating. During which, the landed gentry not only ogle the proverbial black sheep of the Holmes family, but take it upon themselves to harass your flatmate?” 

John shrugs his shoulders. Ambles around the room with his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t say harass.” It’s only natural for civilians to ask him questions: _Have you shot someone? Have you been shot?_ Admittedly, John does not have the best track record when it comes to responding to probing questions in an affable manner. He did his best, though. For Sherlock’s sake.

Wasn’t good enough. Not if Sherlock could tell his family’s queries rattled his cage. 

John looks at Sherlock sitting there. Imagines a teenaged version of his best friend sulking under the covers of his bed.   

“Our people,” Sherlock mumbles against his thumbs. 

John sighs. He had no idea Mummy’s birthday bash would be less ‘party’ and more ‘political’ in nature. Not that the woman herself isn’t a pleasure. Beautifully attentive of Sherlock’s needs, her smiles kind and doting. Wiping the corner of his mouth and straightening his bowtie. John does not question her love for Sherlock. He also no longer questions from which parent Mycroft received his preemptive-multitasking personality. Mummy is a schemer. More than one ulterior motive brewing beneath the façade of what had turned out to be a ball of the highest order rather than the ‘small gathering of friends’ she promised Sherlock over the phone a month ago. 

“Our people.” John turns his attention to the Kincade painting. “That didn’t offend me, you know.” 

“It should have.” 

 _Our people_ was a common theme among the guests. _Our people_ believe… _our people_ will contact your people… _our people_ ad nauseam. Sherlock doesn’t know that John tolerated plenty of _our people_ s when he was on tour in Afghanistan. Or, more likely, he does know and doesn’t wish for John to associate Sherlock’s birthday with his military career. 

John takes a pen out of his pocket. He draws a skull in the window of the homey cottage in the corner of the painting. “There. That’s more like it. More you.” 

Sherlock combats the reflex to blush. Irritated that the very avatar of his body is betraying him at a time like this. Because John is unapologetically perfect. And it hurts so bad it makes him want to do something stupid and dangerous. Like write a sonnet. A-B-B-A, A-B-B-A. 

Sherlock joins John in front of the painting. Sketches the mechanics of a murder in the picturesque field before capping the pen with a flourish. “Perfect.” 


	22. Epiphany

Sherlock bounds up the stairs. Two, three at a time. 

It’s midnight. John is not awake. 

Sherlock fixes that, as he’s so inclined. Epiphanies coagulating on the tip of his tongue, battering the backs of his teeth like a ram. Ostentatious. He never could keep his revelations to himself. He certainly can’t now that there’s a cognizant being sharing rooms with him. It’s John’s fault if he’s out cold when Sherlock is being particularly brilliant. 

Sherlock plops down on the end of John’s bed. (Or as close to plopping as he is capable, the graceful twat.) The bedsprings complain. So does John. “Tapeworms!” 

John slides his hand under his pillow. Grabs his gun, Sherlock knows. What he doesn’t know is John’s superficial contemplation of murder most foul. 

“Really, John? Lestrade may be incompetent, but he would suss you out in a minute.”

Or not. 

“Lestrade would help me hide the evidence,” John tries to speak. The result is: _Mmmff_. He’s bleary-eyed, the hem of his sheet imprinted on his cheek. “Wha’s this ‘bout tapeworms?” he slurs. Tucks himself into a ball of resigned curiosity and warmth and soft edges. (Sherlock has a strong desire to prod at him in this moment of faux vulnerability. Faux because John has the presence of mind to shoot him between the eyes in a second. Vulnerability because his hair is mussed and his voice is delectably stuffy.) 

“The victim.” 

“Mmm.” 

“Tapeworms. In her stomach. Murder inquiry. _Think_.” 

“Yes. Alright.” John fights the urge to yank his covers from under Sherlock and pull them over his head. “Thinking cap, on.” 

Sherlock is chary of John’s thinking cap. He says, “It wasn’t murder,” way too gleefully. Must be worse than murder.That or Patience Moran’s untimely death has led to a number of unsolved crimes all for Sherlock’s taking. “She wasn’t murdered, John. She was on a detrimental diet.” 

 _Diet?_  

“Don’t tell me she—“ 

“Self inflicted.” 

No wonder Sherlock’s so giddy. Idiocy is a double-edged sword as far as he’s concerned. Pains him to monitor the ignorance of others, slogging through daily life weighted down by normal people and their normal cognitive functions. But stupidity on a psychological level—stupidity significant enough to warrant further investigation—is the pigment to Sherlock’s binder. Without stupid people doing stupid things in stupid ways, his life would be much more dull. His mind cranks out masterpiece after masterpiece in the wake of stupid. 

Post Impressionism. Van Gogh. Starry Night. 

John really needs to sleep. 

“Well,” he hums. “Thank you for that.” 

 

 

One hour later, Sherlock nearly breaks down the door in his haste to shout, “Potatoes!” 

John wishes he could drop dead for just a little while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the docufiction television series 1000 Ways To Die, someone swallowed tapeworms in order to lose weight quickly.


	23. More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Power outage. I apologize for the delay!

They are arranging receipts on the floor when it happens. _The Kiss_. 

Sherlock very rarely finds it necessary to assign anything capital letters, let alone italics, but there are exceptions. Like _The Work_. Significant, a cerebral space-vampire on his hard drive, but _The Work_ does not hold everything in the balance. Most things. Lots of things. But not everything. John isn’t everything, either, but he contributes a key element to Sherlock’s everything. Sherlock will be damned if he accepts a mimicry of John’s resplendence. Forced to revise his metamorphosis from a solitary creature of habit to a solitary creature of habit with a John. 

Romantic tripe. Sherlock doesn’t know himself. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Strikes through the nuggets and truffles of John’s heart, breaking his mental pen. Might as well tip the illusory jar of ink while he’s at it. Black as pitch. Sherlock dismembers _Those Thoughts_. (If he’s capitalizing willy-nilly, he might as well go whole hog.) Focuses on the fact that John is going to kiss him. (Or maybe punch him. John does surprise.) Sherlock is obtuse when it comes to sentiment and all its trappings he eschews, but he’s adept at interpreting a shift of the eyes, a nibble of the lip. Micro expressions. John wants him. 

Sherlock’s toes curl. He crosses his legs so John won’t notice. 

John is sexual. Sherlock is asexual. This is the first and most insignificant setback in a series of impediments for them as a…Sherlock shudders at the word _Couple_. First only because sexual compatibility seems to be ‘the basis of a stable relationship’, if Sherlock is to believe the internet. (Dull. And the other setbacks can go rot.) Sherlock doesn’t give a flying fuck about sexual orientation or gender identification unless it’s _Work_ related. He doesn’t even identify as asexual. Not technically. He identifies with no one; labels tend to make him itchy. Especially _Sociopath_ , but it gives Sherlock a sick sense of satisfaction to retain a term so standoffish. It has served him well in he past. He does not plan to discard it now. 

But the point. And it is sex. Sherlock doesn’t care, to put it mildly. John does. Sherlock cares about John. So he will care about their sex life. If there is one. 

Resolved. 

As for love? 

Sherlock has studied love for the purpose of navigating its convoluted justifications and breakable vows of monogamy. Love is a vicious motivator. The masses fall in and out of it, trying on new partners like trying on new outfits to wear. What he has with John isn’t love. It’s _More_.  

There is no definition for _More_. Not the _More_ Sherlock feels, and he’s pretty sure he’s feeling the hell out of it. 

Does John feel love? Or _More_? 

Sherlock didn’t want _More_. Not initially. Sherlock had an inkling John was interested in him in the beginning. He shut him down back then, waiving John’s misplaced feelings because John was (and is) John and Sherlock was (and is) hopelessly fascinated by him. Didn’t want John to get the wrong idea. Didn’t want to jeopardize what he knew would bloom into something…dare he think _Special_? 

No. Ugh. Plebian. 

Something _Interesting_. 

Months turned to years and John dated women. Sherlock can’t determine when  _More_  took residence somewhere behind his sternum. Maybe it was when John belted _Bright Eyes_ at a karaoke bar in Piccadilly so Sherlock could steal a set of keys from under the bartender’s nose. Or maybe it was when John admonished Anderson in the middle of a crime scene for calling Sherlock a freak one time too many. Or maybe it was when John purchased a bottle of wine for Sherlock for Christmas: _Educated Guess_. John kept being perfect and Sherlock kept allowing his perfectness to affect him, damn it. 

To be subjected to something so _Normal_. So agonizing. After weeks of over analyzing everything from their mid-morning conversations to the way John styled his hair, enough was enough. 

Sherlock refuses to moon. He’s too good at it. Just like everything else. 

So, yes. Now. It ends now. 

Sherlock thumbs through his stack of receipts. He systematizes May through July while John assembles the whole of August. They work swiftly and silently. The whisper of Sherlock’s robe and the rustle of paper. Their fingers touch. 

John is gazing at him. This is it. 

If intimacy is what John needs ( _Likely_.), Sherlock will give it to him. If John wants platonicism ( _Probable_.), Sherlock will give it to him. If he wants the sun ( _Doubtful_.), Sherlock will find a way to give him the sun. Just one thing, though. Only one condition. John can’t leave. Ever. Sherlock won’t let him. 

Or maybe he will. If John asks. 

Just. Don’t. 

Sherlock says it. Quick. Like ripping off an Elastoplast. “It would seem I’m in love with you.” As if announcing he has a terminal disease. 

John smiles. “Yes, you are.” Continues sorting August. 

Wait. 

What? 

Sherlock is confused. Which doesn’t happen very often. 

John explains, “Your methods. I applied them. Also, you’re not the subtlest person.” 

“Subtle how?” He’s getting pissed at John cavalier attitude. 

“You researched how to engage in homosexual relations while I was sitting right next to you.” 

Sherlock frowns. “When?”

“Tuesday.” 

“You were in Dublin on Tuesday.” 

“Got back early. You didn’t notice. Obviously.” 

Sherlock forgets about the receipts and the apparently not-so-subtle play for John’s affections. “Case related,” he lobs. 

“You Googled _How to have sex with my flatmate_.” 

Well, shit. “You didn’t say anything.” 

“The concept of timing must be foreign to you.” John idly scratches behind his ear, ducking his head. His face is ruddy from blushing. 

Sherlock wishes he didn’t find John’s conduct so charming. It’s inconvenient. “You’re inconvenient,” he grumbles. 

“Yes, well. Come here.” Reaches for Sherlock. A hand on the back of his neck. The crinkle of receipts under their knees. _The Kiss_. Something that should have been hot and fiery and maybe a little hungry. Clumsy hands, shaky breaths, and trembling bodies. But Sherlock is petulant, foiled in a strange turn of events. He accepts John’s kiss, but declines to accommodate him by tilting his head to one side or opening his mouth when John licks his lips. He can’t _not_ kiss him back, though, as much as John irritates him. ( _More_ again.) 

Sherlock is clinging to John’s jumper. They’ve disturbed their work. 

Sherlock is just fine with that. 


	24. Winning

**You compromised my uteri.**

**SH**

 

John smiles apologetically at Sarah. She looks beautiful. Radiant in the candlelight. She orchestrates a _Go ahead and answer him, John. It’s only going to get worse if you don _’t_._ with a wave of her fork. Because she’s right. He will only get worse. 

 _I did what you said._ John texts back. He’s known Sherlock far too long to hope that will be that.

 

**I told you to sprtiz the uteri with hydrochloric acid. You squirted them.**

**SH**

 

John is well versed in the put-upon sigh. ( _What is spritzing, anyway?_ ) More importantly, what do uteri and hydrochloric acid have anything to do with Sherlock’s present case? He’s investigating an American carnie named Bosco who eats chickens alive. Blood, guts, feathers, and all. 

John feels queasy. He shoves his plate of lobster fettuccine to the side. He texts: _I’m sorry I’ll replace the uteri. I’m on a date._

 

**My apologies.**

**SH**

 

John truly believes tonight is the night of the second coming. Did Sherlock just…?

 

**Roses are red.**

**Violets are blue.**

**You compromised my uteri.**

**Trip and die.**

**SH**

**Also, Sarah has herpes.**

**SH**

John can’t help it. He gives Sarah the side-eye before he defends her:  _Sarah doesn’t have herpes._

 

**I found a fitting substitution for the uteri.**

**SH**

 

_I don’t care._

 

**Which grandmother knit your cable jumper?**

**SH**

 

_Slercock dont_

 

_Dont that jumper is my favorite how in the hell is it comparable to a uterus?_

 

**Do you really want me to answer that, Jawn?**

**Slercock Homes**

That’s it. No. No more. Sherlock’s petty tantrum will not get a rise out of him.

John pockets his mobile, determined to spend the remainder of the evening enjoying the company of—

Sarah’s chair is empty. 

John waits fifteen minutes. You know. Just in case she excused herself to the loo. Or something. Another put-upon sigh. He just can’t win. 

_Sarah left._

 

**Come home. I’ve ordered Chinese.**

**SH**

 

That’s an unfair assertion, John decides as he grabs his coat. Him not winning. For all intents and purposes, he’s already won. 

This thought is marginally soppier than anticipated, but John can’t be arsed to care.

 

_On my way._


	25. Belief

Sherlock does not believe in love. 

Nothing, as of yet, has given him any reason to put faith in such an ill-defined emotion. Love is patient, love is kind. Love is privy to murder. Love is the soft, white underbelly of altruism. Jealousy and illusions of control. Love is more than vicious, it’s an excuse. An excuse to screen calls, dictate wardrobes. Batter and bruise. An excuse not to be alone. 

Sherlock does and doesn’t understand the compulsion to avoid seclusion. He would say he empathizes, but empathy and he haven’t gotten on since Uni and damn it all to hell if he feels the need to try and rationalize the reasoning behind: “It’s not you, it’s me.” 

Sherlock shifts. Turns his head. Left first, then right. Eyes closed against the flat, open to his mind palace. Where did he burry that—ah! He opens the bread box. Bats fifteen species of moths to disperse as he leans closer. A stack of envelopes, secured with the spinal chord of a Malaysian pygmy. 

Coffee stains. Smudges of ink. Water damaged pages inside. 

He keeps them to remind himself that love—or what workaday people call love—is, at its core, deception. Flattery, sweet nothings, please. Sherlock takes the letters and tosses them in the fire, which is always lit. The paper turns to ash, tendrils of smoke, and the sentiments contained within burst into flames. 

Sherlock moves on. 

His stores of information give way like the Red Sea before…before whoever it was. Gandhi? Sherlock doesn’t know. Doesn’t care to know. But he’s inside his own head, statistics, encyclopedic configurations, bone and debris and mud and fingernails. Granules of sand prickle the balls of his bare feet. The swish of his robe as he weaves down the hallway to his illusory bedroom. 

John Watson is there. Rather, everything he knows about John Watson is there. Missing pieces. Frayed threads. He’s not wearing any shoes, either. Sherlock rakes his knuckles against his philtrum. Rests his elbow on the back of his wrist. Fingers drumming against his hipbone. Tchaikovsky. He’s having trouble visualizing a combination of John and love. John and _More_. Somehow, he thought the beautiful chaos that occaionally constricts his lungs would change his opinion of John. Or of himself. 

But no. He still marvels at John. Still loves himself.

Love is disgusting.  

John patiently waits for Sherlock to make a decision. 

“Touch me,” Sherlock says. 

John checks his pulse. Fixes the collar of Sherlock’s robe. Rubs the pad of his thumb under Sherlock’s eyes, noting the evidence of discoloration from lack of sleep. Tuts his disappointment, but he’s smiling. He leads Sherlock to where the bed is in reality and Sherlock follows. Drops his guard wholly and without hesitation. 

Stirs himself conscious. Breathes deep through his nose. Evaluates the stages of sleep John undergoes in the wee hours of the morning, the expanse of cotton sheets ablush with the nightlife of Baker Street. Specters of headlights span across the walls like some kind of Arthurian beast John always goes on and on about. 

John’s hand wanders toward Sherlock. His fingers splay, almost as if he’s trying to reach him. Protect him. From bad dreams, from particularly painful memories that tend to raid his mind while his body is forced to recuperate. 

Sherlock touches John’s forearm. John sighs into his pillow.  

Sherlock does not believe in love. He believes in John Watson. 


	26. Graceful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse this time. I'm just lazy.

Sherlock is a graceful man. 

No ifs ands or buts about it. If John were the poetic type, which he isn’t, he would liken his flatmate to a gazelle, a swan, or maybe another creature in the animal kingdom that doesn’t make him sound like bloody a ten-year-old girl when he entertains these kinds of thoughts in his head. 

Sherlock drops his mobile from his supine position on the couch directly on his face. But that’s not the funny part. No, the funny part is when he leaves the phone flat against his forehead like he meant to lose his grip all along. Just lies there, his nose whistling from the impact, and his hand descends to rest upon his belly, as elegant as anything. 

John is in the kitchen. He’s doubled over against the table trying not to crack a rib stifling his laughter. “What was that noise?” he asks casually. 

“My boredom reaching heretofore unimaginable heights,” Sherlock replies. 

“Sounds like you dropped something. You okay?” 

“I’m reading a text.” 

“With your eyes closed?” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s voice is staid, monotonous. Not having yet accepted the fact that he’s embarrassed himself. And maybe he never will because he doesn’t do embarrassment. He’s resigned, though. Resigned to the fact hat John takes pleasure in his pain. ( _Didn’t John take the Hippocratic Oath?_ ) “If you choose to take liberties, I will be forced to retaliate, John.” 

John takes the picture anyway.


	27. DVD

“Why are those grown men crying?”            

John tries to tune Sherlock out. Sadly, Sherlock is tune-out proof. John has yet to determine how or why. It may be his Alan Rickman-esque baritone that demands attention. May be that his presence is commanding to the nth degree. To the point where pedestrians ignorant of the infamy of _Sherlock Holmes_ ogle him on the street, male and female alike. (Age makes not a bit of difference.) Whatever power Sherlock holds over the general populace—and every facet of his flatmate’s life to boot—John is as close to impervious as they come. 

But not entirely immune. 

“Why is everyone bowing to children?” 

John grinds his teeth together. Stabs at the remote, increasing the volume. 

Should have known subtlety would get him nowhere. 

“Why aren’t they wearing shoes? And why are their feet so hairy?” 

John pauses the DVD. “I invited you to watch _The Lord of the Rings_ with me weeks ago. This is the third movie of the trilogy. Don’t sit beside me on the couch twenty minutes from the end and start asking questions.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “ _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ ,” he mimics. “What’s so special about fuzzy, little children and unassuming jewelry and starting wars with creatures that don’t exist, hm?” Folds his arms across his chest, sinking deep into the leather cushions. 

“Because.” John gestures at Elijah Wood with the remote. His attempt to coax an explanation is uninspiring. “It is what it is, Sherlock. And I like it.” He adds, “Now shut up,” very seriously, but very playfully at the same time. Somehow. 

Sherlock is in awe of John’s paradoxical bearing. So he does as he’s told. Only has one more comment. “God! How many sodding endings does this film have, John?”


	28. Shopping

John forces Sherlock to go Christmas shopping. 

In conjunction with the imminent _Christmas Dinner: 2018_ , John can’t decide if he’s lost his mind or if Freud was right. There really is such a thing as a Death Wish and John is subconsciously risking his life. 

John huffs. Sherlock Holmes _is_ his Death Wish. 

Sherlock is glaring daggers— _No_. Wait. Not daggers. Plutonium bombs. He’s glaring Plutonium bombs at the PA system, which is currently playing the most mind-numbing Christmas music John has ever heard. Who creates the playlists for this shit? Are they trying to stimulate more shopping or mass murder? In Sherlock’s case, it’s the latter. He stands in the middle of the cologne department, head tilting back and back and his face is terrifyingly blank given the tremors waltzing up and down his spine like Mycroft and his Lady Du Jour, _Christmas Dinner: 2017._  

John smirks. 

_Here comes Suzy Snowflake_

_Dressed in a snow white gown_

_Tap, tap, tappin’ at your windowpane_

_To tell you she’s in town_  

 

“John,” Sherlock croaks. “Please tell me you brought your gun.” 

John shakes his head. “It’s frowned upon, Sherlock. Firing weapons in public.”

 

_Here comes Suzy Snowflake_

_Soon you will hear her say_

_“Come out ev’ryone and play with me_

_I haven’t long to stay.”_

 

“I’d be doing the world a favor.” 

“You’d be carted off to prison.” 

“I’d regret nothing.” 

“Can’t solve crimes if you’re locked up, you know.” 

“Statistically speaking, two to three percent of prison deaths are the direct result of homicide.” 

“Two to three? I hate to break it to you, but your homicide-to-case ratio is at least sixty five.”

 

_If you want to make a snowman_

_I’ll help you out make one, two, three_

_If you want to take a sleigh ride—WHEE!_

_The ride’s on me!_

 

“Oh my God, John, this is heinous!” Sherlock lounges against the cologne counter, the epitome of scapegrace, and John’s not the only one comparing him to the male models advertising this year’s sensuous new scents. John finds Sherlock’s animal magnetism somewhat funny. (Women, and a fair number of men, find his animal magnetism somewhat arousing.) Sherlock makes sexy an art form. But his lack of interest in sex outside the arena of murder and blackmail is diminutive. Sherlock is asexual—whether or not he identifies as such out of sheer insolence is neither here nor there—but he’s a sexual creature. Sherlock often comments on John’s illogicality, but he’s just as illogical. If not more so.   

“What?” Sherlock asks. 

“You’re overdoing it.” John shrugs his aching shoulders. (He is, of course, carrying everything they’ve purchased thus far.) “Who am I kidding, you always overdo it.” 

“Name one time I overdid anything.” 

“You faked your death.” 

“I faked my death a bit.” 

They shouldn’t be having a row in the middle of a crowded store, but they never seem to get everything off their chests in the confines of 221B. There’s always residual angst or schmoopy feelings that rear their ugly heads at the most inopportune moments. And there’s usually an accompanying photograph highlighting their ‘domestic bickering’ the following morning. “Corresponding with me as Sigerson does not qualify as a bit.” 

Sherlock waves him off. “Not my fault you didn’t figure it out.” 

John adjusts the bags in his hands. While Sherlock may treat him like a packmule around the holidays, Christmas shopping with the world’s only consulting detective is a blessing in disguise. Though, Sherlock does tend to lean more toward practical presents, which invariably lead to embarrassing revelations. Like: _“Buy Molly a vaginal cleanser. She’s been using soap for the past two months and she’s clearly agitated.”_  

Sherlock pays for John’s gift, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Itching to leave. _Suzy Snowflake_ has come to an end, but _I Wanna Go Skating With Willie_ threatens to goad Sherlock’s brain cells into committing suicide. John smiles when Sherlock flips the bottle of whatever _No. Infinite_ is supposed to be. Typically, John buys classic scents. Something moderately cheap and accessible. He doesn’t question Sherlock’s choice, though. “Nutmeg, Cedar, and Brazilian Rosewood, John!” brooks no arguments.

“I never asked what you want.” 

Sherlock leers. “You. And I don’t mean that in a Happy-Christmas-All-I-Want-Is-You way. I mean that in an Indelicate way. You. Submissive, preferably, as you bear a dominate role in the bedroom nine times out of ten.” 

John raises his eyebrows. “Kinky of you.” 

“Is it?” Sherlock is distracted by the PA system again, unconcerned with the flustered employees eavesdropping on their conversation. His trigger finger twitches. “You never let me observe you as long as I want. I want to observe you as long as I want.” 

That’s because Sherlock’s idea of observing John is peppering his throat with kisses and then stopping to ask when it was he broke his clavicle. How it felt. Where it hurt. How long it took to heal. John can’t blame Sherlock his curiosity. Asking John probing questions is more personal, more significant, to him than sex. (Not that he doesn’t enjoy sex from time to time, but the fact remains.) John not-so-secretly enjoys Sherlock’s queer inquisitions. As long as Sherlock wants? Could mean several hours of intellectual intercourse. 

John kisses him. “Fine. But no honey.”


	29. Practice

Something is definitely amiss when Sherlock kisses Molly Hooper over a dead body. 

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock purrs. Like she’s offered to fetch him a cup of coffee and not involuntarily succumbed to whatever social experiment he has up his sleeve. “Text me the results.” He spins on his heel, bidding John to follow. 

“Okay. What was that?” 

Sherlock hails a cab with a turn of his wrist. John would give just about anything to encompass a fraction of the poise Sherlock possesses. Because self-confidence sluices his every pore, joint, and socket like some kind of sparkly second skin and it tosses John’s biscuits that he has a _way_ about him altogether ethereal. Shouldn’t be legal. ( _Sherlock would love it if it weren’t._ ) “What was what?” Sherlock holds the door open for John. Major red flag. Sherlock is many things, but considerate isn’t one of them. 

John eyes him warily. Climbs inside, half expecting Sherlock to scarper off to places unknown like the skiving bastard he is. To John’s astonishment, Sherlock hops in after him. “Baker Street,” he instructs the driver. “221B.” 

Curiosity killed the cat. Thank God cats have nine lives. “Sherlock?” 

“Yes?” 

“You just kissed Molly Hooper.” 

Sherlock smiles a crooked smile. “Very good, John. Nothing escapes your keen sense of observation.” 

“I’m going to ignore your sarcasm in lieu of _what the hell_? Heterosexual, are we? To what end?” 

“Clear your schedule Monday next. We’ve been invited to attend the gallery of Lois Mozelle, whom I will woo with unrepentant charm. She will then attempt to murder me and disunite my genitals in the name of art.” 

John starts. 

“Penile amputation,” Sherlock elaborates evilly. 

John doesn’t like this plan. 

“I trust you’ll have my back in this endeavor?” 

“Yes. Of course.” John looks out the window. Can’t find anything to do with his hands. The thought of cupping them around his crotch is tempting. He clears his throat twice before he says, “Kissing Molly Hooper was, what? Practice?” 

“Practice makes perfect.” 

John giggles. “You’re going to need a lot more practice, judging from her reaction.” 

The resulting silence is pregnant with Sherlock’s indignation. “What?”  

“I’m ribbing you.” John tries to dodge a bullet, “I know that wasn’t your A game.” 

Sherlock’s glare eviscerates. And, oh. It was. It was his A game. John studiously counts the number of Londoners they pass wearing deerstalkers. Sherlock mumbles something incomprehensibly about a learning curve, and he never mumbles incomprehensibly. Red flag number two. 

“Look. I didn’t mean—it’s okay if you’re inexperienced—“ 

“Unless you intend to help instruct me on the unimaginative task of swapping saliva with a murderous vamp, I suggest you shut up.” 

John shuts up. 

“No one’s seen fit to critique me before,” Sherlock adds snootily. 

John’s first thought is: _Brownnosers_. His second is: _Sherlock’s kissed people. Plural._ “Don’t get me wrong. You’re very…thorough. Not exactly romantic, I’m afraid. And your boys are on the line, remember.” 

“Stop the cab!” Sherlock shoves John outside when the taxi screeches to a halt. Sherlock is a study in wounded pride, not-quite shame coloring his Hellenistic cheeks pink. John wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. Doesn’t stop him from thinking that Sherlock is kind of adorable when he’s trying to prove a point. If that’s what he has in mind. Points to prove, not John Watson’s to murder. 

Sherlock prowls the sidewalk. “Pardon.” He imposes himself upon a single woman of relative age, a divorcee in her early thirties. Lays one on her swiftly, proficient, and about as pleasurable as locking lips with a halibut, if John may hazard a simile. “There.” Sherlock sniffs, mentally and physically preparing himself for John’s assessment. Shaking it out. What _it_ is that he’s shaking, John can’t say. Nerves? Does Sherlock do nerves? Wonders may never cease. 

The woman loiters, dumbstruck. 

“Go away.” Sherlock shoos her off. “I’m done with you.” 

She takes her leave of them with a huff of disappointment. 

Sherlock draws himself to his full height. Towers over John. A reasonably low blow, all things considered. “Go on, then.” 

“Where do I begin? First, don’t accost women on the street.” 

“I make no promises.” 

“Second…” John will not instruct Sherlock how to go about kissing a lunatic. “Just think about murder. You’ll be fine.” 

Sherlock looks disgusted. “Far be it from me to correct you in your area of expertise, John, but let me assure you. I’m not a necrophiliac.” 

“No. Not what I meant.” 

“What else could you have possibly meant by that remark?” 

“Nevermind. Forget I said anything.” 

“Already deleted.” 

“Good. Okay.” John coughs into his fist. Sherlock might as well be the bloody Poster Boy for Doggedness. His embarrassment is as effective a deterrent in his quest to pillage John’s mind on the rudimentaries of tongue-on-tongue as Mycroft’s dietitian deters cake. (Not at all. Unfortunately.) John makes another attempt: “Imagine you’re kissing science.” 

“Science is a systematic enterprise. Not some tawdry, pin-up girl.” 

“You’re being irritatingly literal right now. Let’s revisit the practice makes perfect bit, yeah? What about one of your homeless network?” 

“Unsanitary.” 

“You just kissed a total stranger!” 

“She’s a librarian, as evidenced by her keratosis pilaris. Two children, broke it off with her second husband over dinner at _Jean Eve_ , who enjoys chocolate in her peppermint tea. Disgusting. Need I go on?” 

“No.” 

“What about Sarah?” 

“What about her?” 

“I could kiss her.” 

“Uh, no.” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

“We broke up forever ago. She also thinks you’re an arrogant prick that spends far too much money on—“ John shrugs. “—fucking cashmere socks.” 

Sherlock blinks at him. 

“Okay, that last part is me. But Sarah isn’t an option.” 

“What about the other one?” 

“What other one?” 

“The one with the nose.” 

“Broke up.” 

“I’m taking advise from a man who can’t keep a steady girlfriend?” 

“ _You_ , Sherlock. _You’re_ the one who’s always interfering with my love life.” 

“That’s preposterous.” 

“It really isn’t.” John smirks. “Donovan?” 

“I’d rather die.” 

“Anderson?” 

“Now you’re just taking the piss.” Sherlock fumes in quiet for exactly three minutes. “How do you propose we solve our dilemma?” 

“We could switch places. I could do the wooing.” 

“Penile amputation,” Sherlock rehashes.  

 _Holy shit._ John shudders. “Use the back of your hand. We’ll take this step by— _Not out here!_ Jesus.At home. If we’re going to suffer this humiliation, we’re going to do it in the privacy of our own rooms.” 

And they do. John makes Sherlock watch YouTube videos of questionable content. Also: Bond. 

They fall asleep on the couch in the middle of _Dr. No_. Lois Mozelle is arrested the following morning for drinking and driving, which throws a wrench in Sherlock’s works, but the murderess is detained and there is a search warrant issued at Sherlock’s stymied behest. Two-story art studio. John doesn’t even want to think about the evidence Lestrade uncovers. 

Sherlock laments the wasted space on his hard drive. Hours worth of rubbish, he moans and groans. 

John convinces him to _File, Save_ the information on the off chance he needs to kiss someone in the future. Might come in handy. 


	30. Lazy

Lazy mornings are few and far between, but John wouldn’t have it any other way. Too much of a good thing and all. Sherlock rarely, if ever, sleeps with John. Sleeping-sleeping, not sex-sleeping, just to be clear. (Honestly, John would prefer the latter to occur more regularly _and when he’s awake for Christ’s sake, Sherlock!_ ) 

Sherlock’s sleep schedule is chaotic. To put it mildly. When he does find it necessary to succumb to his transport’s need to rest, he either folds himself over the kitchen table like a limp marionette or he drags himself to the couch before he looses consciousness in the strangest of places. Like the shower. Or on the landing. 

John does not sleep in Sherlock’s bed. He’s genuinely afraid Sherlock is experimenting with bedbugs despite his flatmate’s assurances to the contrary. So his own bed it is. And John doesn’t mind the separate bedrooms thing. He’s a light sleeper. Finds it difficult to relax if his partner snores or tosses and turns or talks in their sleep. Sherlock does all three. As annoying as he is on a cognizant stage, he’s doubly irksome sleep-deducing that John has an irrational fear of facial hair at 3:00AM. 

Sometimes, their schedules coincide to create an aforementioned lazy morning. Sherlock requires John’s audience and John tolerates Sherlock’s barging in on him because his circadian rhythms are somewhat composed, a string of late nights notwithstanding. 

John makes room for Sherlock, who ignores the offer for the first ten minutes. He’s…well. He’s _beautiful_ when he surrenders himself, wholly and completely, absorbed in his unique brand of contemplation. No reservations. No hesitation. No mercy. John isn’t sure he would have the courage to permit his mind to all but wreak havoc on his body, pacing and speaking and gesturing almost as if physicality is a second thought altogether. Like Sherlock exists on another plane of existence. 

John waits. 

Eventually, Sherlock sits. Legs stretching forever. Drawing whatever is on his mind to an almost-close. 

They lounge, John listening to Sherlock’s unencumbered brilliance and Sherlock listening to John breathe. They stare at the ceiling, chests rising and falling in perfect harmony, and John imagines they’re star-gazing. 


	31. Explicit

Sherlock’s new favorite way to annoy Mycroft is explicit in nature. 

John doesn’t like it. Except that he does. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about the conflicting emotions Sherlock often inspires in him. _Knuckle under,_ he thinks as he sips his tea, spying on the Holmes brothers from his seat in the kitchen. Their non-verbal to-ing and fro-ing captioned by a quirk of an eyebrow, a tilt of the head, a smirk of the lips. 

John counts down the launch of Sherlock’s rebuttal to Mycroft’s offer, drowning the ‘three, two, one, liftoff’ with a swig of ginseng, which he loathes. But it’s the only tea they have in the cupboard and he can’t _not_ watch Holmes v Holmes without a cuppa to alleviate the stray insults that invariably hurtle in his direction. Collateral criticism. 

Sherlock takes a breath. “John bent me over his chair last night and we made mad, passionate love right where you’re sitting.” He says this with the zeal of a Ben Stein skit. John coughs at the mental image of Sherlock willingly bending over anything for sexual gratification. 

John cannot see Mycroft’s reaction, but he can envision he’s fighting tooth and nail not to leap to his feet in a hurry. John mouths to Sherlock: _What are you…?_  

Sherlock responds with a: _Shhh…_ Lips puckering while Mycroft seeks blessed serenity to keep calm and carry on. 

“Sherlock, this is a matter of the utmost—“ 

“Fellatio,” Sherlock hums. 

“—importance and—“ 

“Algolagnia.” 

“—your cooperation—“ 

“Anilingu _sss_.” 

Mycroft stands. Sputters, “Sherlock, this is entirely inappropriate!” He looks to John for assistance. John merely raises his cup, the universal counsel _to know when you are beaten_ tacit and oh-so worth it. John sucks his tea between his teeth, the slurping finally driving Mycroft back downstairs. 

Sherlock and John have a giggle fit. 


	32. First

“I’m dying first!” 

To Dr. Rei’s credit, she finishes stitching the gash on John’s brow before she asks Sherlock to return to the reception area. Not that he follows her orders. No. Why would he do that? All thunderous fury and well-lit angles. He takes John’s head in his hands. Examines Dr. Rei’s ( _Mediocre!_ ) work, cracking John’s neck quite nicely in the process. “You’ll scar,” he hisses. 

“I won’t scar.” John waves him off, wincing. “And what do you mean you’re dying first?” 

Sherlock paces back and forth, back and forth. Pushes Dr. Rei away and away and away again. Not manhandling. Never manhandling. Funneling. Sherlock’s manic energy an unconscious perimeter, circling John and edging the doctor’s intrusive presence from the room entirely. Sherlock’s eyes dart left and right and front and center, cataloguing and dismantling and deleting at mind-rending speed. John’s head throbs painfully just watching Sherlock’s eyes tremble in their sockets. _“You could have died!”_  

“I’m fine.” 

Sherlock upends a bin of hazardous waste. A well-placed kick and an ungodly snarl of frustration. 

 _“Jesus—“_  

“You’re not fine! You’re clearly the antithesis of fine!” 

“It’s superficial.” 

“Stitches are superficial.” Sherlock laughs mirthlessly, slamming the door closed. Locks them inside. “So help me, John. If you die—“ He’s at a loss for words. Sherlock is rarely, if ever, at a loss of words. Crowds John where he sits. His bony knees grinding John’s legs into the side of the table. “I hope it was worth it. Brilliant. Really.” 

John sighs. He’s tired. He’s sore. He wants to go home and forget tonight ever happened, but Sherlock will make sure he never forgets. “I was mugged. I’m sorry. But I swear I’m fine. No one’s dying first or second or—“ John licks his lips. His voice cracks a bit when he says, “I really, _really_ don’t want to have to live through your death a second time. I think you owe me one, don’t you?” 

“No.” 

“That’s not fair.” 

“This will probably come as no surprise to you, John, but I’m not the most compassionate person in London.” 

John smothers his face against Sherlock’s chest. He tries not to laugh.


	33. Wet

John can’t keep his eyes open. Can’t string more than two words together in what Sherlock deems a futile attempt at communication. Reminding Sherlock that he needs to change out of his wet clothes as soon as they’re home because wet clothes and freezing weather leads to colds and colds and Sherlock Holmes don’t get on and there’s some cough syrup in the cupboard, isn’t there? Just…in not so many words. Mostly grunting. And drunken gestures. 

Sherlock helps John up the stairs. He hums his acquiescence while he picks John’s coat off his shoulders. Steers John toward the couch. Not the least bit surprised when he starts snoring before his head hits the Union Jack pillow. 

Sherlock unlaces John’s shoes. Arranges them neatly under the couch. Peels John’s socks off his feet. Followed by his trousers and his jumper and his button-down. His boxers and his tee are suitably dry so Sherlock spares John any unnecessary nudity, though he doesn’t understand John’s unwillingness to sleep starkers. 

Sherlock tucks John in, wedging his comforter securely around John’s arms and legs. Safe now. Sherlock dips his head. Noses slotting side-by-side, aligning their torsos. Deep breaths, his heart warm and fluttering like a bird. 

He waits for John to stop shivering before he tends to himself. 


	34. Massage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really suck at this updating daily thing. I'll try to do better.

It’s not often John comes home to find Sherlock spread-eagled on the livingroom floor, shirtless. The detritus of his work is nowhere in sight and alarm bells ring shrilly in John’s ears. He drops his groceries by the door. Kneels down beside Sherlock who looks at John like a man dying of thirst would look at a tall glass of water. 

“John,” he wheezes. “Thank God. I’ve pulled something.” Sherlock turns his face against the carpet, flattening his nostrils against his philtrum. Whatever he pulled must not be incommoding him too terribly, as he contorts his right arm in order to point somewhere between his shoulder blades. 

“I’m a doctor, but I’m not a chiropractor.” 

Sherlock tugs on John’s trousers before he can gather the momentum to leave. (Sherlock has a way of sapping his momentum to the bare bone, damn him.) He steels himself to speak. Like it’s a gargantuan effort to appeal to John with the dreaded P word. “Please.” 

How can John refuse him? “Alright, you wanker. Up you get.” 

Sherlock snorts. “I am in pain.” John seriously doubts it. Mostly because Sherlock’s wriggling himself into a more comfortable position and it amazes John that Sherlock can go days without sleeping or eating—that he can, on one memorable occasion, bring a killer to justice only to inform John that he’s been shot hours after the fact. Or _grazed_ , but semantics is beside the point. Sherlock’s threshold for pain is impressive. (Impressively stupid.) Yet there are occasions when he indulges himself in a bit of a man cold. Or, in this case, unwarranted whinging. 

Sherlock snaps, “Hurry up!” 

John sits heavily on the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock makes a strangled noise in the pit of his throat. He chokes out a, “Gently!” 

“Ready?” John asks. 

Sherlock nods. 

John kneads Sherlock’s shoulders with the heels of his palms. He can feel the tension in his muscles begin to loosen so he steadily applies more pressure, digging his thumbs into Sherlock’s balmy flesh. Sherlock moans appreciatively. Somehow finds it necessary to inform John that Swedish massages are anything but effective. Time to pull out the big guns, then. John plants his elbow in the middle of Sherlock’s back, slides his hand under Sherlock’s left elbow, and _crack!_  

Sherlock howls like a rhesus monkey. 

Mrs. Hudson beats her ceiling with the handle of her broom. “A little less noise, boys!” 


	35. Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently using a random-word generator for drabble prompts. If you would like me to experiment with a certain word, message me. Because it sounds like fun.

John is giggling. 

Sherlock shushes him. Bites down on his bottom lip to keep from grinning like an imbecile. But he has to admit. This is fun. More than fun. This is ideal. 

Sherlock opens John’s memory stick from the desktop. Scrolls through a cache of photographs of himself and John in 221B. Standing with their backs against the smiley-face wall. And the reason Sherlock complied with John’s portrait request had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that John winded himself moving the couch and everything to do with John’s _no-more-hat-photo-on-my-blog_ peace offering. 

In hindsight, a digital camera set for continuous shooting and a lack of preparation aside from rearranging the living room furniture was not John’s brightest idea. Although, the resulting pictures of Sherlock and John shuffling, glaring, and arguing about whether or not Sherlock should smile produced some ugly, ugly gems for just such an occasion.  

“Shh, John.” Sherlock changes the wallpaper. A shot of Sherlock antagonizing John with a too-big smile and John pulling a face. The likes of which would frighten small children. Sherlock adjusts the screen resolution and rotation, inverting the mouse controls. By the time he’s finished tweaking Anderson’s computer settings, John can’t…he just can’t. 

“Oh, my God,” he hiccups. “Anderson’s going to be pissed.” 

Sherlock unplugs the memory stick. “We’re done here. Come on.” Steers John outside. His face hurts from the effort not to laugh. John’s chortling enough for the both of them. 

Sherlock stops short when he hears the lift chime at the end of the corridor. The doors slide open to reveal none other than Anderson. He’s reviewing some sort of pamphlet so he hasn’t noticed them yet. 

“Act natural?” 

“What? John, we’re loitering in the vicinity of Anderson’s office. He’s an idiot, but I’m sure even he will deduce that we’ve been up to no good.” 

John shrugs. His face is rosy from laughter. “Oh, c’mon. You can think of a reason why we’re down here, can’t you?” 

He can, but he’s not going to. Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise John apparently enjoys because he homes in, yanking the lapel of Sherlock’s coat, and kisses Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s stomach rolls in surprise. Lazy, warm, shockwaves of pleasure radiating from his chest to the tips of his fingers. Instead of kissing John back, Sherlock asks into and around and on John’s mouth, “Really? Is this what we’re doing ( _mmh_ ) down here?” Sherlock’s attempt at insouciance is annulled by the huskiness of his voice. He clears his throat while John nips at his chin. “Your reasoning?” 

“No reason.” 

“Your reason is no reason.” 

“Yes.” Kiss. “Exactly.” Kiss. “Yes.” 

Anderson’s cry of disgust separates them. Before he can threaten to report John or make any nasty comments, Sherlock says, “I won’t tell if you won’t.” Stares pointedly at the pamphlet in Anderson’s hands and Anderson hides it behind his back two seconds too late. Sherlock imagines a full body waxing must be dreadfully painful. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Anderson scurries into his office. 

Sherlock and John make their getaway. The lift doors shut, muffling Anderson’s curses on their not-so-good names.


	36. Bingo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty chapter. I apologize to shiverelectric, who probably didn't have angst in mind for Bingo.
> 
> The next three chapters are as follows: Legato, Ornamental, and Trifling. Please submit as many words as you like. I'm enjoying the exercise.

Sherlock’s mind has always fascinated John, but there are times his mind terrifies the shit out of him. Like when John walked in on Sherlock navigating the rooms of his mind palace, for instance. Sherlock was unresponsive to any and every stimuli. Food ( _Admittedly, not that unusual._ ), music, conversation, touch. Nothing John said or did could draw Sherlock from the depths of his radiant intellect, a slave to the workings of that great brain of his. 

John is terrified again. 

Superfluous information gets stuck in Sherlock’s head. Stuck as in, literally, stuck. Sherlock cannot delete, reshuffle the deck of data piling high and creating an immense amount of pressure between his eyes. _Stuck_. It tears at him. Eats at him. And Sherlock is in agony. His mind is his most valuable asset. He’s honed his skills, trained himself to block out sights or smells or noises that have the ability to derail his train…trains…his bloody switching yard of thoughts. Interviewing a nursery school teacher while a dozen children belt _B—I—N-G-O!_ leaves Sherlock in a state of nerves John can’t even begin to imagine. 

Sherlock’s brain is not a machine, as much as Sherlock wishes otherwise. He can’t snap auditory recollections into pieces as effortlessly as he prefers. Peeling the clamor of inept singing from the question and answer segment of his interrogation is a lot more difficult, and painful, than John thought possible. 

But nothing is impossible with Sherlock Holmes. 

One of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century is practically climbing the walls. He steps on and off the coffee table. Scatters sheets of music. His fingers wind tightly in his hair, pulling and pulling and whimpering at the strain and the stress of all the noise, noise, noise! Never, not once, has John found Sherlock’s masochistic quirks to be remotely funny; episodes cataclysmic to his manner as a functioning human being in his own right. 

There are tears in Sherlock’s eyes. He claws at his face and John takes action. Unsure, scared, and wanting—more than anything—to help. But he doesn’t know how. And that shakes John to his core. He wants to reach inside Sherlock’s head. Chisel away at the obstruction causing him so much anguish. But he can’t. He knows he can’t. 

John covers Sherlock’s ears. Rubs his thumbs against his sweaty brow. 

Tears and sweat and Sherlock pleading with John under his breath, “Get it out.” Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck. Clutches at his jumper, curling in on himself. He trembles from exertion so John holds him. He just holds him. And he feels as helpless now as he did when he was shot, left for dead. Runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, the ridges of his spine piercing his heart like a barrage of bullets burning hot in the Afghan sun.    

“Shh.” John cradles Sherlock’s head. Squeezes him tighter when he trembles violently against John’s body. 

It’s not enough. John knows it’s not enough. Doesn’t stop him from praying that it will be. _Please let me be enough._


	37. Legato

“You’re in love with him.” 

Sherlock stops texting. Glares at John’s date ( _Mary? Magdalene? Sort of sounds familiar._ ) who cradles her chin atop interwoven fingers. Imperturbably. Like she’s one up on him. Sherlock doesn’t have time to waste; he will not rejoinder with passive-aggressive body language. Undertones contending that John Watson his HIS. Belongs to HIM. And she—with her little, black dress and fuck-me slingbacks—will have no stake in John’s future if Sherlock has any say in the matter. “A rather bold assumption. We’ve only just met.” 

“But you know all about me, don’t you?” Painted lips. Polished nails. Eyeliner applied with a steady, practiced hand. She’s gutsy. Definitely a trait John would admire, along with her sizeable breasts. Mary Magdalene smiles at Sherlock without humor. He can see it in her eyes. That cold, calculating look oft referred to as woman’s intuition. A lioness on the prowl, preparing to pounce. “I’ve read John’s blog. Seen the papers.” Mary sizes him up, her evaluation of him rendering her most apathetic indeed. He is not a threat. 

In Sherlock’s opinion, it is a mistake to theorize without all the facts. “John is characteristically romantic in his depiction of me and my work. And the papers? Oooh,” he purrs. “Must be true.” 

A waiter approaches the table to refill Mary’s wine glass. He must feel the tension between them because he neither asks after John, who excused himself to use the facilities, nor inquires whether Sherlock will be joining their party of two. 

Sherlock has no intention of eating. As is his practice, he disrupted John’s evening with Ms. Magdalene, a fabricated narrative his excuse to trouble John for his opinion regarding a set of crime scene photographs. John, as is  _his_ practice, was irked Sherlock imposed on him during the main course. But the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable. Sherlock reveled in it. 

Mary, however, was strictly unimpressed. The moment John was out of earshot, she accused Sherlock of being in love with his flatmate. 

The ball is in her court. 

“Those pictures couldn’t have waited twenty minutes?” 

“Lives are at stake,” Sherlock lies. 

“You’ve done this before.” Mary leans forward. “You’re jealous. Desperate for his attention. Begging for it,” she chuckles. As if Sherlock’s behavior has reverted him to a child-like status and his jejune attitude toward her is more adorably amusing than problematic. “He’s not interested in you, you know. Don’t be stupid.” 

Sherlock bristles. Fury threatens to overrule the nonchallant expression on his face, dictate his hands, but he’s already tapping the tabletop agitatedly. His dander is rising to critical levels. He has to speak. Unleash, lest the hateful words wither and die in his chest and he’ll have to dig them out of his throat later, petrified insults sticking to his esophagus and a seven percent solution will ease his suffering, but he can’t. He can’t do that anymore. Sherlock opens his mouth, the muscles in his shoulders ape the ebb and flow of his movements when he plays the violin. A sting of deductions, rapid-fire and unforgiving. One after another. Like music. Legato. He doesn’t take a breath: “You’ve been engaged to marry twice before. You broke it off. Both times, if I’m not mistaken. The first unlucky bastard you seduced and dumped was a menial laborer, probably construction, and his job embarrassed you, yes, because you deserve better. Isn’t that what your mother always told you? That you deserve better? Shame she didn’t take her own advice. Father a sot, died of liver cancer three—no—four years ago. Irrelevant. You were in love with your second fiancé, but he cheated on you. Most men do. And your pride. Wounded because look at you. Nice figure, smart, sexy. All those praises your girlfriends have erroneously bestowed on you over the years. So now you’ve fixed your sights on John. A good man with a good job and relatively handsome by your standards, but he isn’t good enough, is he? He lives with a flatmate—an attractive flatmate, you think—and he’s at my beck and call. I am not the jealous one, Ms. Magdalene. You are.” 

Mary is dumbstruck.     

John returns not a moment too soon. “Behaving yourself?” he asks Sherlock. 

“Marginally.” 

Mary stands when John sits. She grabs her purse. “I’m sorry, John,” she says. “You’ve been lovely, but…” She doesn’t finish her sentence. 

“Are you okay? Something wrong?” 

“Something,” she answers stiffly before she saunters out of their lives. 

John folds his arms across his chest. Clears his throat. “Explain.” 

“Don’t _explain_ me. She’s…” Sherlock, finally, has run out of nasty words. It feels nice.  

“…a frigid bitch?” 

A callous insult for John Watson. Sherlock is surprised at him. He loves being surprised at him. 

“Spent the whole appetizer calling your methods into question. Plus, she hates the way I dress.” 

John is wearing his best trousers, a suitable dinner jacket, an unassuming dress shirt, and a powder blue ascot. It’s the most daring accessory John owns. 

“Bitch,” Sherlock agrees. 

John snickers into the remainder of his boeuf bourguignon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters to follow: Ornamental, Trifling, Soliloquy, Sartorial, and Quotidian. Submit a word if you like. I'm not picky!


	38. Ornamental

John has never been more embarrassed in his entire life. And he hasn’t even started undressing yet. 

When Sherlock approached him with another art-related investigation—one far removed from penile dismemberment—he thought it would be one of those relatively painless cases. You know. The kind where Sherlock makes an appearance, identifies the culprit, and departs in a span of minutes. John only refers to these prompt episodes of deduction as _relatively painless_ because while the investigation itself is devoid of legwork and life-threatening situations, Sherlock invariably descends into one of his black moods afterwards. A miasma of screeching violin music and nicotine patches a routine adjunct.  

John can’t decide what’s worse. Being shot at or Sherlock wallowing in a kind of state where hopes and dreams go to die. 

Sherlock occasionally disguises himself should his Belstaff coat draw (more) attention to his otherworldly grandeur. John was too distracted by Sherlock wearing jeans and trainers to even consider what Sherlock had in store for him. 

John shucks his coat. Pulls his jumper over his head. _Oh, God,_ he thinks. _I can’t believe I’m doing this._  

When Sherlock dragged the aforementioned distracted John out of their flat to attend an art course because “Four of the last five models that posed for Miss Haversham’s figure painting class have turned up missing.” John didn’t think for one second he would be participating since he can’t draw stick people to save his life. Knows next to nothing about tempera or acrylic or oil paints. He was vaguely concerned that Sherlock would lift some terpenoid, but it never crossed his mind Sherlock would introduce himself to the smattering of students as a connoisseur from France, complete with accent, and John as their male model for the evening. 

So it was either strip naked or delay the arrest of a kidnapper. 

Sherlock draws the curtain. “What’s taking you so long?” 

“Well. Excuse me for hesitating before I, I. _Pose_ _starkers_ in front of a room full of strangers.” His fingers fumble against the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock bats his hands away. Deftly confiscates one layer after another. He untucks the tee from John’s trousers and John shoves him off because that’s a little familiar, isn’t it? “Thank you, I’m fine.” 

“You’re upset with me.” 

John taps the end of his nose. A gesture Sherlock grudgingly remembers as a sign of accuracy. Ironic, considering John swears playing Charades is forever off the table after the _Yakety Yak_ incident. Plus, the scorch marks on the armrest of John’s chair. 

“You have a sheet.”  

John glares. Sherlock knows from firsthand experience that sheets conceal next to nothing…sometimes. 

“We could always switch places,” Sherlock says offhandedly. Like it’s an option. But no. No way in hell. Not only would Sherlock fail to protect his modesty, John would have to simultaneously pretend to paint Sherlock’s pale arse while deducing who in their right mind is plotting to lure Sherlock into a windowless van and _oh my God this is bloody ridiculous!_  

John shakes his head. “Sit,” is his command. Points toward the studio full of twenty-somethings and the drawing horses they’re straddling. Gathering their brushes, mixing their paints. Pallet knives scraping taut canvas and the smell of hot wax, oddly. “We’ll talk later.” 

Sherlock is delighted to obey John. For once. 

Miss Haversham adjusts the lighting in the room. Extreme lights and darks, a light source study. John tries not to puke on his shoes. 

“About ready, Mr. Burton?” 

John hates his alias. John hates Sherlock’s alias. John hates Sherlock. “A minute,” he hedges. Drops his pants. But forget nudity. He doesn’t care if Sherlock is praising his expertise as a model. A real tour de force. Really Sherlock, damn it? John dated a professional model once. Sexy as hell, he thought at the time. Not the nakedness, per se. ( _Okay. Maybe a bit._ ) The courage, Art Nouveau, dangerous, what have you. John was insanely attracted to her profession in the face of her assurances that modeling is a tedious business. Maintaining a single position for hours. Keeping still, keeping quiet. _And, ug, you don’t feel very attractive when artists see you solely as subject matter,_ she told John in that nasally voice of hers. 

John shudders. Never again. He winds the sheet around his torso, his waist, and his legs. Nobody’s seeing anything. Especially Sherlock, that twat. John scuttles out from behind the curtain and immediately turns his back. 

Take that, aesthetics. 

Silence. Then an audible gasp. “Oh my goodness, Mr. Burton!” Miss Haversham is beside herself. “How beautiful!” 

Murmurs of agreement. 

John is confused. They’ve, what? Got a clear view of the back of his head? His shoulders? 

Oh.

 _Oh._  

John supposes his bullet wound is good for something. 

Three hours, two texts, and a dozen paintings later, Lestrade is reading Miss Haversham her rights and John is still naked in his sheet. “Sherlock,” he says. “If I ever have to strip for a case again, it’ll be too soon.” 

Sherlock hums noncommittally. The shit. 

John smiles tightly at the students huddled together under the awning. All clutching their artistic interpretations of John’s scar. He wants to sneer, but he won’t. He’s the only one who seems to think it’s ugly. Then again, he’s the only one who remembers the agony, the heat, the sand, and a little DIY before letting go. Just letting go, resigned to the fact that he was dying. 

“Fitting ornamentation for the flat.” Sherlock twiddles his canvas. 

John blinks. Looks hard at Sherlock’s finished piece. For some reason, John thought he would have fixated on his shoulder just like the others. Drawn to the puckered, pink flesh. A roadmap of pain. What John doesn’t expect to see is a detailed painting of the bullet fired, the rifle used, velocity and trajectory and weather conditions and calculations revolving around John’s survival rate and statistical PTSD and John, John, John. 

John knows nothing of art, but he thinks the way Sherlock’s mind works is beautiful.   

Sherlock treats John to pad thai and dumplings after he gets dressed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late. Again. But The Hobbit! Also: I majored in Graphic Design. I had to do this. 
> 
> Chapters to follow: Trifling, Soliloquy, Sartorial, Quotidian, Interlude, Hyoid, Splinter, Cashmere, and Stocking (on Christmas Eve!). Submit as many words as you like. I have 183 chapters to go.


	39. Trifling

Romantic gestures, words of affirmation, terms of endearment. Discarded, left fermenting in the deepest and darkest reservoirs of Sherlock’s hindbrain. 

But. When John looks at him. Looks at him as he is in this moment. Sherlock’s desire to procure a cerebral spade and dig for buried nuances he’s observed but never committed fully to memory is unprecedented. He wants to know. Now. Right now. What John’s thinking, what he wants, because John Watson is ruining him and it hurts so good _._

Sherlock honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. 

And that. _That_ is the rub. 

“What?” Sherlock blurts. He wonders to hear himself speak at all. 

“W—nothing.” John is flustered. Rocks back on his heels, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. Must find something interesting stuck to the toes of his shoes because he gives them his undivided attention. “Just.” Emphasizes the T, bidding for time. “Thinking.” 

Sherlock leaves his keys to dangle in the lock. “About?” 

John meets his eyes, lips pressed firmly together. “Oh. About. Yes.” Unsuccessfully curbs a smile. Infective. Sherlock answers in kind. It’s unbearable. “This, tonight. It was nice.” 

Sherlock scoffs. “Nice. Nice is a word used to describe one of your dull acquaintances or your great aunt Silvia’s handmade doilies.” He taps a beat on the doorknob, his patience wearing thin. “John, you didn’t have to accompany me if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

“No, I. I had fun.” 

“You fell asleep.” 

“We should do it again sometime.” 

Sherlock is concerned for John’s sanity. “We solve crimes on a regular basis.” He pauses. Tilts his head to one side. “Well, I solve crimes on a regular basis.” 

“I mean the whole us together thing. Eating takeaway and watching twelve hours of security footage.” 

“This wasn’t a date,” Sherlock says, bemused. 

“No,” John agrees. “But it could have been, I think.” 

“Is this the part where I invite you upstairs for coffee we have no intention of drinking?” Sherlock invades John’s personal space and John closes his eyes, titillating Sherlock with his blind trust. Breath mingling in the night. Streetlights and headlights like mandorlas in the accumulating fog, twinkling in Sherlock’s periphery.  

They kiss. Lips brushing tentatively. John’s hands slide under Sherlock’s coat and pull him flush against his chest and, ah. Sherlock is hot. Fervent signals from his brain to the capillaries widening in his cheeks, flooding his face with heat. Cascading down and further down, pooling tender in the pit of his stomach. He. He wants to—he. Sherlock gasps. He can’t think. Scrambles to gather his thoughts; the trifles he needed to examine more closely are swelling beneath his feet. Crawling up his legs like ants and he should cup John’s face in his hands, shouldn’t he? Adjust the angle? There? 

Yes. God, yes. Can’t catch his breath. Huffing, burning, closer, and the mist is closing in around them. 

Sherlock forces their mouths apart. “I would have you be the death of me,” he admits. And all the social conventions wither and die because that’s a bit not good. 

John chuckles. “Pretty sure that’s not until the third date.” 

Sherlock should have known archetypal platitudes would mean little to the man who is all but destroying him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters to follow: Soliloquy, Sartorial, Quotidian, Interlude, Hyoid, Splinter, Cashmere, Stocking, and a few more I haven't noted yet. =)


	40. Soliloquy

For some ungodly reason, Sherlock remembers one of Shakespeare’s most famous soliloquies is Juliet’s “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”. Perhaps because Mycroft is irrationally fond of Shakespeare. ( _Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once._ ) Could be Sherlock enjoys the convoluted scheming of star-crossed idiots in love and phony suicide stratagems. 

Pain. Loss. Suffering. 

Sherlock huffs. Doesn’t matter. Irrelevant. _Pay attention to what’s in front of you,_ he berates himself. 

Juliet’s speech is considered a soliloquy because she thinks she’s alone. 

John thinks he’s alone. 

“I was so alone and I owe you so much,” he says. 

 _But he is alone,_ Sherlock thinks before he turns and walks away. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he can return. And then neither of them will be lonely. For now, they will be alone together…very, very far apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters to follow: Sartorial, Quotidian, Interlude, Hyoid, Splinter, Cashmere, Stocking, Stockholm, Insuperable, Lapis lazuli, Quintessential, Cross-stitch, Circumlocution, Pizza, Derogatory, Nouveau-riche, Beeswax, Mannequin, Licorice, Elven, Cerulean, Cephalothorax, Wisteria, Mauve, Magnitude, Navigation, Zoom, Albedo, Scintillation, Cirrus, Absinthe, Bonsai, Heliotrope, Paragon, Salacious, Mascot, Zygomatic, Subterfuge, Pristine, Recalcitrant, Aurora, Marigold, Feudal, Opalescent, Butterfly, Wraith, Sangfroid, Mozzarella, Sombrero, Chevalier, Incorporeal, and Omnipresent.


	41. Sartorial

Sherlock is a creature of convention, sartorially speaking. Socks organized and indexed in the top drawer of his bureau. Shirts laundered, starched, and spaced intermittently inside his closet. Suits pressed, arranged by thread count, buttons polished, the works. Not that Sherlock breaks so much as a sweat coordinating his wardrobe. Dry cleaner owes him a favor. He hasn’t done his own laundry in over seven years. 

Sherlock takes pride in the clothes he wears. Allows nothing but the finest blends to grace his skin. His daily attire is an extension of himself and he is, as John would say, too damn picky. 

Sherlock stumbles into the living room, coat askew. “Shh!” he drunk-whispers to John, who drunk-shuts the door behind them, rattling the skull on the mantle. 

“Shhh!” John admonishes the door. “Be quiet!” 

The door ominously says nothing in return. 

Sherlock wobbles to the window. Peers outside. Squinting, wide-eyed, and squinting again. “I don’t see ‘em. _Them_ ,” he enunciates. Adjusts the scarf around his neck only to discard it a moment later. Toward the fireplace. “Christ, John.” Watches his flatmate demolish the kitchen in search for paracetamol. “You’re like a, a rhino in a glass menagerie.” 

“That’s bull in a china cabinet, I think.” Bottles of pills cascade from the kitchen counter to the kitchen floor, clattering like bloody maracas or rattlesnakes or—Sherlock trips. Catches himself on the arm of his chair. He needs to sit down. “Th’ hell they slip in our drinks?” John wonders aloud. Too loudly. Fumbles with two glasses of water he drops in the sink because he can’t see straight. 

“Roh. Rohypn. _Rohypnol_ , I imagine.” Sherlock gets his feet under him, counts to three (Repeatedly.), and propels himself at the couch. Not quite as graceful as usual. Faceplants, legs sprawled inelegantly. He turns over on his back with some difficulty, coat twisting around his arms. Sherlock studies his fingers, spreading them wide and pressing them together, the kitchen light a most efficient…what’s the word? 

Astronomy. Shit. 

Penumbra? Antumbra?   

Sherlock smiles. Light source dispersing as it travels through his flesh. Element of internal reflection. His skin looks like strawberry jam. John should see this. 

“My fingers are like jam,” Sherlock announces. Starts once he perceives that John is standing next to him, half-empty glass of water in his shaking left hand. 

“I had an accident.” His jumper and his trousers are damp with what Sherlock hopes isn’t piss. “Oh, God. We’re so wasted. I haven’t been wasted since—“ John grimaces. Doesn’t finish his sentence. “Shou’ probably get Missus Hudson to keep ‘n eye on us tonight.” Sets the cup he salvaged from the sink on the coffee table. 

“I’ll get her,” Sherlock offers for absolutely no reason because why would he trouble himself when John is always so delightfully useful? Analogous mundane activities. Analogous is a funny word. It has anal in it. Logous. Pertaining to study. The study of arseholes. Yes. And what’s inside. Ha! Certainly not jam. No. Would have to be pudding. Chocolate pudding. What self-respecting anal would fill itself with vanilla pudding? “I’ll go get her,” Sherlock repeats himself. 

 _No! Shut up!_ he thinks. 

“You ar’n going anywhere.” John flails his arms around like he’s making a salient point despite his dilapidated motor skills. “You went to the roof an’ you didn’t come back for three years. You’ll just get lost.” 

“I won’t get lost.” 

John fetches something from Sherlock’s desk. “You will.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Exercising precautions.” John uncaps a pen. “Just in case.” 

“Just in case,” Sherlock finds himself agreeing. 

John crawls up Sherlock’s body. And— _oh_. That’s rather nice. John braces himself on Sherlock’s shoulder. Hand slips off and into his hair, but not before scratching Sherlock’s neck with his thumbnail. “S-Sorry,” John stutters. Not really paying attention, though. Too busy perching the nib of the pen on Sherlock’s brow. Begins scratching letters across his forehead and Sherlock unhelpfully furrows his eyebrows, displacing John’s very black and very permanent writing utensil with every facial expression he pulls. “Stop it.” 

Sherlock chuckles. Plucks at John’s sodden jumper. It’s getting his shirt wet. But John’s not finished. Sherlock needs to be patient. Except he’s not. “How much longer?” 

“Almost done. Don’t wriggle around so much.” John sits solidly in Sherlock’s lap.  

Sherlock gasps, throws his head back against the cushions. “Ah…John…” Hard to breathe. “You’re...heavy!” 

“Ssso I’m not as skinny as you. So what?” 

Sherlock glares at him. Sees that John is blushing. He offers John his hand. “They aren’t jam, but they look like jam.” 

“Honest?” 

“Yes.” 

John sniffs Sherlock’s fingers. “They smell like fer…formaldehyde.” Licks around the knuckle of his index. “Taste like beer.” 

Sherlock is intrigued. The texture of John’s tongue is altogether new to him and frankly? He likes it. He really likes it. Shoves his fingers deep in John’s mouth, explores the insides of his cheeks—gouges left from unforgiving teeth—the backs of his molars, salivary glands. John protests at first. Gags Sherlock’s name. Eventually accepts the invasive examination and returns to his work. 

Sherlock’s arm grows heavy. He rests his elbow on his stomach. Watches John suck on the tip of his middle finger, nibble on his nail, while he adds perfunctory punctuation. 

“Done.” 

“What’s it say?”  

Sherlock prods at John’s lips. He traces his spoken words, “Property of John Watson. ‘Course.” 

Sherlock will not remember the events leading to John’s impromptu tagging, but he will feel strangely important when he looks at himself in the mirror the following morning. Nothing. Not his finest shirts, his best suits, his pricey socks. Absolutely nothing comes close to evoking a sense of value comparable to John’s tidy scrawl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of words is getting very long so I'll stop noting them here for now.


	42. Quotidian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the most intimate thing I’ve ever written so be warned. Maybe it’s the fever. Stocking will be the next chapter because Christmas! And I can’t guarantee I’ll update tomorrow because of family and general unwellness on my part.

Sherlock is a loser. Because love is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Because John Watson has somehow, someway wormed himself not only inside Sherlock’s heart, but also inside Sherlock’s head—where it matters. He can feel him there behind his waking eyes. A visceral rhythm pounding and pounding in the environs of his sinus cavity. Bright. Beautiful. Loud. Sherlock, more than once, is confident he’s hallucinating. That he’s been drugged. Tripping on acid or cocaine. Jonesing for nicotine at the very least. 

But no. It’s just John. Or the memory of John. Long years traversing Europe, the Americas, hunting down and destroying the vestiges of Moriarty’s crime syndicate. And it’s always when he’s alone. Lying awake in a flea-ridden motel in the middle of East Jesus Nowhere at the crack of dawn. John thrumming though his body, his mind, his heart. 

He misses him. 

It isn’t accurate to say a part of Sherlock is lost without John at his side. No. Sherlock is a whole person. But it feels as if his biology is no longer functioning at optimum efficiency. John enables him. Doesn’t necessarily make him better than he already is—because he’s natraully incredible—but John makes Sherlock regard himself in a new light. Like he’s worth it.

Worth what, he can’t fathom. But definitely deserving of more than his fair share. 

 

 

John hugs him, after. After Sebastian Moran, after his sick and twisted spin on _The Most Dangerous Game_. After the gunshots and the surreptitious phone calls and empty warehouses rigged to explode. Hugs Sherlock like he’s worth more than any number of jade pins. Cradling the back of his head with the full width of his hand, nose buried in his collar. 

“I believed in you,” he whispers. And it’s not a reprimand. He’s not blaming Sherlock for three years of inexplicable bereavement, for living day in and day out with the burden of another human being tattooed on the backs of his eyelids, tormenting him in the dead of the night. No, it’s an endorsement. John believed in him. Believed he wasn’t the fake he said he was. Wasn’t dead, maybe. 

Sherlock hugs him in return. 

If it were possible to contain John, to draw him compact and complete inside his chest, Sherlock would swallow him whole. Because it hurts. This healing atmosphere after years of restraint, of suffering. Like rubbing salt on an open wound. It hurts. And it’s not getting better, holding John in his arms. It’s getting worse. Elevating, cataclysmic, to the left of his breastbone. A brewing storm in the confines of his chest and his ribcage rattles with every breath. Respite. Begging, please. _Please_ , like needles prickling his shoulders, his neck. 

Gentle fingers run through his hair. 

And it’s John, John, John. Over and over and over again until Sherlock is speaking his name with such reverence. Tightens his grip. The wool of his jumper beneath his fingernails.

Then his skin. Less words and an onslaught of More. 

More. 

 _More._  

Flesh. Flushed and perspiring beneath the sheets of John’s bed. A cocoon of linen, and their broken sighs reverberate in their ears, safe and sound in a tangle of limbs and a nest of pillows and discarded clothing. John loves him as one condemned to die on the morrow. Thoroughly, attentively, casing Sherlock’s lean frame beneath his body. Extols him past the point of no return with _“You mad bastard.”_  and _“Look at you.”_  and  _“You’re beautiful.”._  It’s too much. It’s way too much for Sherlock, who never imagined someone—anyone—could (or would) worship him like this. John cants his hips, kissing every inch of Sherlock’s face, panting, “Sherlock” and “oh, Sherlock” and “Don’t you ever go where I can’t find you.” 

Sherlock is inert. Boneless. Undone beneath the weight of the conviction in John’s eyes. Can’t promise him anything. That’s not the way the world works. He says as much as he drowns, eyes closed, head lolling from the pressure and the pain and the pleasure and— _John._  

“Then lie to me.” 

Yes. Okay. Yes. Whatever John wants.

 

 

“This is miserable,” Sherlock quips, spitting toothpaste out of his mouth. He watches John brush his teeth in a circular fashion. Up and down, neat and precise, and it makes him absurdly happy. He doesn’t like it. One confession, one night, and suddenly the everyday and the ordinary and the mundane aren’t so mind-numbingly monotonous. Sherlock wants to cut them out and hoard them in secret places no one else can find even though they serve no purpose. But he can’t help it. And it pisses him off. “You’re killing me,” he voices his displeasure. 

John kisses him. Sudsy tongue leaving residue of his morning ablutions on Sherlock’s lips. “Turnabout’s fair play.”  


	43. Stocking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on schedule!

John brings home a pair of red stockings. Covered in glitter and paper stars and Sherlock’s name is spelled SHRLOCK and an E is magicmarkered at an angle between the H and the R. Sherlock has never seen anything so blatantly Christmas-y in his entire life. He stops playing his violin. Watches John hang them from the mantle, over the fire. Snowflakes and depth-deficient presents drawn in squiggly strands of glue. 

“Good Lord,” Sherlock grouses. He’s had it up to here, there, and everywhere with John’s compulsive need to don the flat with holly and fairy lights. His one concession is the mulled wine because _mulled wine_. Sherlock will never admit he has a weakness for mulled wine, but John has already deduced as much. Obvious. Seeing as he’s caught Sherlock surreptitiously licking his sticky, red fingers throughout the afternoon. 

“Molly’s niece made these.” Centers them just so. The glitter sparkles dazzlingly. Sherlock wants to throw something. Preferably a breakable something. And preferably at John’s head. There’s a box of ornaments in the kitchen. “She’s a big fan, apparently.” 

“Spare me these unending pleasantries.” 

“Going to help me decorate this year?” John asks. 

Sherlock does not dignify John’s madness with a response. 

John looks at his wristwatch. “Party’s in an hour. Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?” Smiles evilly. Evilly for John Watson, that is. Sherlock has taught himself to gauge the difference between John’s smiles based on the number and the profundity of his smile lines. He’s catalogued them somewhere and, _no_. It’s _not_ a waste of space on his hard drive because he lives with the man and it’s in his best interest to hone his ability to assess whether John’s feeling murderous or John’s feeling gassy. 

“I loathe Christmas.” Sherlock abandons his violin. Makes a detour en route to his bedroom. Plucks a shiny, silver star from the box of ornaments and promptly wedges the sparkly abomination inside one of his erlenmeyer flasks. Cracks an evil smile of his own—he has three, total—and proceeds to get dressed. 

Sherlock disrobes fussily. He really does hate the holiday season. He doesn’t understand why John enjoys it so much. All the colors and the people and the noise. Sherlock shudders. This time of year used to be a source of great pain for him. When he was younger. When he hadn’t yet learned how to filter out the abundance of information crowding his eyes and his brain felt like it was eating itself. He remembers the fevers. His skin sensitive to the touch, physically paining him merely because _Jingle Bells_ wouldn’t stop cycling in his head. His mother thought he was plagued with panic attacks, but Sherlock is quite certain he’s never been beleaguered by anything so boring. 

Buttons his shirt, heaving a sigh. He doesn’t want to talk to people. Doesn’t want to have to listen to their voices, watch them mingle. It’s horrendous bearing witness to the mating rituals of the human race. John, especially. He’s always so chipper. So stomach-clenchingly charming. Trying too hard. Way too hard. Sherlock grimaces. Straightens his lapel in the mirror before he slinks back into the living room, the picture of suavity. 

Catches sight of John slipping something inside his stocking. 

But they don’t exchange presents. Not for Christmas, not birthdays. It’s their one and only rule because reciprocity was never Sherlock’s strong suit. (How was he to know John wouldn’t enjoy a nice cow liver with which to perform experiments? It’s what he would have wanted.) 

“For me?” 

John starts. Lost in thought. “Oh.” Retrieves the present. “I was hoping to surprise you.” 

Sherlock gives him a look. _Were you, John? Really? Surprise_ me _?_  

John rolls his eyes. “Just open it, you berk.” 

Sherlock tears the gaudy paper from a small box containing military grade ear plugs. Soft, transparent, almost invisible. Not just noise canceling, but noise isolating. Sherlock expected, well. Something, but not this level of something. Perfunctory gifts usually books or that damned hat. Equipment or maybe a body part. Associated with his whims and interests. No one he’s known personally has ever thought to give him a something so...mitigating. Protecting him from the abyss and the gargantuan effort to claw himself back out. 

“John, um.” Sherlock opens and closes his mouth. Fiddles with the ear plugs, vaguely aware that he should not tell John he wasted his money because he’s smiling his proud smile. Sherlock is struck with the irrational desire to hug him. So he leans forward, arms stiff, and his elbows feel very awkward right now. Pat-pat John’s back. On the verge of retreating when John wraps his arms around his shoulders. He smells of mulled wine and comfort. Sherlock couldn’t ask for anything more disgustingly perfect. 


	44. Interlude

Dragging Sherlock to the theatre is like pulling teeth. Funny, that. Considering John covered for Sherlock while he nicked molars from a number of dead bodies at Bart’s while Molly was on coffee break. (Not her coffee break, technically. Sherlock’s coffee break, per his request. But that’s neither here nor there.) John made him a deal; if he must be party to Sherlock’s burglary, Sherlock has to accompany him to see _The Hobbit_. 

It’s strange seeing Sherlock at the cinema. He doesn’t have the patience to sit still and watch anything exceeding the length of a YouTube video, let alone a film over two hours long. But, damn it, John’s tried to see a movie by himself and Sherlock always— _always_ —texts him something dire and life-threatening and it usually involves either guns or milk. 

Sherlock can’t get into trouble if he’s sitting (Possibly sulking.) in the dark next to John. 

Can he? 

John and Sherlock take their seats. Sherlock is making a very unappealing face at the floor, where his shoes are kind-of sort-of sticking in a _I-can’t-tell-if-it’s-fizzy-drink-or-piss_ way. “I think I’m getting hives,” Sherlock says. 

John ignores him. Nibbles on his popcorn. 

Sherlock states he’s dying of boredom twice before the previews roll. 

“Behave.” 

“Have you noticed we’re the only adults in here?” 

John has noticed. “Well. It’s sort of a family friendly film. I think.” 

The first preview plays. Dark, teen love, angst, kissing in the rain. Sherlock makes strange gargling noises throughout. “Are you trying to kill me? I think you’re trying to kill me.” 

“I have no control over previews.” 

Sherlock wraps his coat tightly around his midsection and props his knees against the vacant seat in front of him. 

Next preview: Dark, teen love, angst, kissing in the rain. John almost wonders if it’s the same movie aside from the fact that the actors are different. 

Sherlock shoots him a nasty look. 

Next preview: Dark, teen love, angst, kissing in the rain. 

Really? 

John looks behind him at the projector. Gets an eye full of a teenage couple full-throttle snogging. “These previews are…” He’s just not sure. “…kind of weird for _The Hobbit_.” 

Next preview: Dark, teen love, humor, kissing in the rain. 

“Finally some variety,” Sherlock sneers. 

He’s shushed by a handful of girls. 

Title sequence. Trees, landscape, yes. Here we go. 

_Breaking Dawn, Part II._

John blinks. Checks the projector again, though he’s not sure why. “We’re in the wrong threatre.” He stands up. 

Sherlock refuses to budge. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Watching a movie.” 

“Twilight?” John hisses between his teeth. And it’s more than a little sad he’s familiar with the genre. “No. We’re here to see _The Hobbit_.” 

“Not my fault. I’m already comfortable.” 

 _Twat._  

“We don’t have tickets for _Breaking Dawn_ , we have tickets for _The Hobbit_.” 

“Do you seriously think someone is going to check our pockets, precious?” 

John scowls. He sits back down amongst irate demands from the patrons. Sinks deep in his seat. What must people think? Two, grown men watching Twilight? 

Sherlock is already laughing. 

And, okay. It is pretty funny. 

“Oh, they live forever. Sex must never turn boring after five hundred years.” 

John giggles. “I can’t tell. Is that a smoldering look or is he constipated?” 

“That’s a little pedophiliac, isn’t it?” 

“She looks like a sexy rabbit.” 

“Are they promoting underage sex?” 

“He’s one hundred years old or something.” 

“How did she have a child if he’s dead? His sperm should be dead.” 

“His sperm is probably sparkly.” 

“Mmm, they’re killing each other now.” 

“All the joys of parenthood, but none of the responsibility.” 

“And sex again. Horny bastards.” 

The movie stops abruptly. John finds himself a little disappointed, strangely. Two members of the cinema staff make a beeline for their seats. Shine flashlights at them unnecessarily. “Gentleman, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

“What for?” Sherlock wants to know. 

“You’re disturbing the other customers. We’re evicting you from the theatre. Please leave.” 

Sherlock sighs in relief. “Thank God.” He hops to his feet readily. “Come on, John. We have work to do.” And off he goes. 

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” one of the staff chastises John. “A man of your age. Honestly.”  

“Sorry,” John apologizes before he chases after Sherlock. He wonders if one hundred years of Sherlock Holmes would become boring. Decides it’s not important. Not when Sherlock is informing the theatre manager that the soles of his shoes are ruined and he’s threatening to sue for damages in what appears to be a serious tone of voice, but not really. 

John can’t stop laughing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't seen Breaking Dawn, Pt. II so if their commentary isn't on par with the movie, that's my fault. I apologize for any typos. I seem to make them a lot. <3


	45. Splinter

Sherlock’s threshold for pain is one of the most paradoxical, inconsistent traits Sherlock possesses. Knife wound? No problem. Oil of vitriol? Piece of cake. A cold? Lord have mercy. 

Sherlock flexes his theatrical muscles, flinging the offending phalange in John’s lap the moment he sits on the coffee table, a pair of tweezers in hand.  

“Alright. Just. Hold still, will you?” John grabs his wrist. 

Sherlock makes an objectionable noise somewhere between a moan and whimper so bogus it’s painful to hear. John tightens his grip. Sherlock’s glare can curdle milk, which explains how on Earth they manage to consume three gallons a week for Christ’s sake. 

“Big baby,” John says fondly. Readies his weapon of choice. 

“I could die, John.” 

“From a splinter? Hardly.” 

“No. Stupid, stupid,” Sherlock bites. If John weren’t currently immobilizing his left hand, he would swaddle himself in his robe and curl in the fetal position, perfectly illustrating his puerile petulance. “What if I trip and fall and break my neck and I can’t reach my phone?” 

“Mrs. Hudson promised to keep an eye on you.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Ever try to rouse the woman after she takes her soothers, John? Impossible.” 

John sticks his tongue between his teeth. Pokes and prods at the pad of Sherlock’s finger. “Someone once told me,” he whispers, like speaking softly will lure the hellish sliver of wood from Sherlock’s aggrieved pinky, “that nothing is impossible. Only improbable.” 

Sherlock swallows whatever knee-jerk response is poised to spring from his mouth. Says instead, “What moron told you that?” His grin morphs into a wince when John plucks the splinter free. 

“One of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century, I think.” 

Sherlock isn’t sure how to handle John’s compliment. It’s awkward, riveting, warm. As if he’s holding a beating heart in his hands, and maybe it’s his own. He doesn’t like it. “One of?” he huffs, turning over. Traps his arms between the couch and his torso because, this way, it doesn’t hurt so good so badly. Draws his knees to his chest. Struggles to breathe evenly. 

John disposes of “a splinter the size of a flat” (according to Sherlock). “You can last two weeks. You survived three years, remember.” 

Sherlock does not consider those three years as  _surviving_. More like _subsisting_. On the promise of present day, actually. Sherlock cannot begin to fathom his good fortune. He’d rather ignore it lest the figures rankle him to the bare bone. Reflection, no thanks. Like a thorn in his side. A splinter in his finger. 

“I remember,” Sherlock mutters. 

He’s startled to feel John sitting at the end of the couch. He touches Sherlock’s ankle and the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders ebb. He buries his toes under John’s thigh and neither of them speaks another word for the remainder of the evening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I keep skipping days, Season 3 will air just as I finish. ^^
> 
> EDIT: But of course I won't skip days on purpose!!!


	46. Hyoid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This is…long and weird. I don’t even know. I apologize in advance for the strangeness. I also apologize if I've completely misrepresented the uses of butorphanol. 
> 
> Thankfully, tomorrow marks the end of the holidays and my blessed routine will no longer be interrupted by parties and family functions and social gatherings. Phew. Happy New Year, everyone!

“What are you wearing?” 

John never knows what to expect when Sherlock stoops to phoning him. The last time Sherlock made an outbound call on his mobile, a thug broke his thumbs trying to coerce Sherlock into revealing the location of a blue carbuncle. John’s stomach twists into knots just thinking about it. The sound of Sherlock’s quavering voice on the other end of the line…but not because he couldn’t handle the pain. No. It was because he wouldn’t be able to text for a few weeks. ( _I’m incommoded, John!_ ) 

“What am I—?” John freezes mid-bite. Drops his half eaten sandwich on his plate. The break room at the surgery is nearly empty. Dr. Potts is nursing a cup a tea, paying John no attention whatsoever. “What are you on about?” 

“You heard me. What are you wearing?” 

Wow. Okay. Obviously some sort of experiment Sherlock is conducting at the flat. John faintly remembers Sherlock saying something about a case last night, but it was late and he can’t remember the details. Something about phone calls. Must correlate. Somehow. John only has fifteen minutes left for lunch and he’s hungry and he’s not going to start wheedling for fine points. “Uh. Jacket, shirt, trousers, tie, socks, shoes, pants.” 

“What color pants?” 

John opens and closes his mouth several times. “Why? Is that relevant?” 

“Could be,” Sherlock purrs sensuously. 

“Red,” John lies. 

A moment of silence. “Red? Really? I’m sorry, John, but I can’t envision you wearing anything more imaginative than white boxer briefs. No, we have to start over.” Sherlock clears his throat. “What are you wearing?”   

John hangs up on him.

 

 

As it turns out, Sherlock is researching phone sex. 

John is beyond confused. But perfectly content lost in the dark, considering. Doesn’t stop Sherlock from explaining to him, in depth, how three _Kissers_ from 1-800-Kiss-nTell’s employee roster have overdosed on butorphanol, which John recalls is used to treat migraines. _“And they all look alike, John. The phone sex workers, that is.”_  

Sherlock goes on and on and on. While John cooks, while John eats, while John watches telly, even while John bathes. 

“Hang on.” John pokes his head out of the shower. “You’re working for 1-800-Kiss-nTell?” 

Sherlock is sitting on the loo, clipping his toenails. “The president hired me yesterday. We discussed this.” 

“When?” 

“Midnight.” 

“I went to bed at seven with a headache.” 

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. Gouges the dead skin around his big toe. 

John closes the shower curtain on him. “You look nothing like those blokes,” he grumbles. Lathers soap across his chest. 

“Those ‘blokes’ didn’t look like ‘those blokes’, John.” Clip. “Kiss N’Tell has a database of Kissers on their website. Complete with egregious profiles and highly edited photographs. The Kiss N’Tell upper management has assured me that my picture fits the description of the previous victims.” 

John has to see this. He opens the shower curtain again to ask the name of his front so he can look up Sherlock’s ‘egregious profile’, but Sherlock already has the page loaded on his mobile, thrust under John’s nose.  

Brunette. Muscled. Tan. He looks like that Californian they pulled over in _A Study in Pink_. John giggles. A little. 

Okay, a lot. 

“Hyoid?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s your sex name?” 

“Yes.” 

John boggles. “Why?” 

“Hyoid is derived from the Greek word _hyoeides_ meaning _shaped like the letter upsilon._  And upsilon is known as Pythagoras’ letter and Pythagoras is theorized to—“ 

“Fine. Okay. But your voice? His face? Not seeing it.” 

Sherlock is currently mutilating his middle toe. “What do you imagine he sounds like?” 

“Uh. S’up,” John says nasally. “Brah, I totally wrecked my dad’s Viper las’ night. I was so wasted, brah.” 

Sherlock is horrified. “Good God. Never do that again. Under penalty of death.” 

John simply smiles and shuts Sherlock out again.

 

 

John feels predominately uncomfortable when he wakes up the next morning to the sound of Sherlock having phone sex at the kitchen table. Badly. 

“You’re doing what?” Sherlock asks his client. “Oh. No, no, no. Not an optimum manner whereupon you’ll achieve orgasm—“ Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Clearly, I was mistaken.” 

John sets the kettle to boil and tries not to laugh. 

“I’m sorry, but you aren’t allowed to pinch my nipples.” Sherlock is offended. “The service is non-refundable. Yes, service. The service I’m providing you!” Before he disconnects, he shouts, “Your father is a disappointing science tutor from Boston!” 

“Phone sex not going well?” John asks. 

Sherlock rubs his face with both hands. Rests his forehead against the table. “Fetch me my revolver.”  

John does no such thing. He makes Sherlock a cup of tea he probably won’t drink, but it’s the thought that counts. Glances from the Kiss N’Tell mobile prescribed to Hyoid, to Sherlock, to the mobile again. John has never seen Sherlock outright fail at something before. He’s a very proficient man. Capable of acclimating to a wide variety of situations when necessary. He learned to drive within minutes, his personas are immaculate, and he even cooked John an edible, hot meal when John was sick with the Flu. He’s good at everything he sets his mind to. Except, apparently, phone sex. 

John reasons it’s because Sherlock can’t see the people he’s talking to. Sherlock is socially stunted, sure, but he relies heavily on non-verbal cues. 

The Kiss N’Tell phone rings. 

Sherlock doesn’t move. 

“Shall I?” 

Sherlock groans. 

“Kiss N’Tell,” John answers. He takes a sip of a tea. “Hyoid speaking.” 

Sherlock watches John while he listens to the caller invariably describe their kinks. 

“Ohhh.” Wiggles his eyebrows at Sherlock. “You are a naughty girl.” A blush tinges his cheeks. “Oh. Boy. Sorry, mate.” Winces. “Ah. You know what? I—“ John bites his knuckles when he’s unable to dissuade the caller from continuing. “Horses, really? That’s—“ John mutes the phone against his neck. “Oh my God,” he whispers, “this man’s insane.” 

Sherlock sits up straight. Steeples his fingers. “Horses?” 

John gives him a _Well?_ look. 

Sherlock motions for John to proceed. 

“Oh, mmm, saddle me up,” John encourages the client haltingly. “I like a nice…” He falters. “…hard bit in my mouth.”

 

 

After an hour of unmitigated torture, Sherlock traces the call and the murderer is apprehended. “Horses,” he explains to John on the cab ride home. “Butorphanol can be used to treat colic in horses.” 

John never wants to speak of horses again. 

“You were really very good. Maybe you’ve discovered yourself a new profession.” 

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

 

 

When Sherlock and John have a row, Sherlock knickers and John storms out of the flat.

 

 

The first time John and Sherlock have sex, John pinches Sherlock’s nipples in retaliation. 

Sherlock squeals like a little girl. 

“That’s for the knickering.” 

“Really?” Sherlock huffs, deliciously winded. He kicks at the sheet tangled about their legs. “Now? You’re going to antagonize me now?” Grins evilly when John nods the affirmative. “Mmm, saddle me up. I like a nice. Hard. Bit. In my mouth.” 

John will never ever admit how much Sherlock is turning him on right now. 


	47. Cashmere

Sherlock periodically sweeps the flat for bugs, courtesy his elder brother. Cameras, mics, you name it. John watches him circumnavigate the room like a well-dressed force of nature. On the coffee table, off the bookshelf, leaping from one chair to another. A thought occurs to John during Sherlock’s invasion-of-privacy temper tantrum, and he asks, “Did you play Don’t Touch The Floor when you were little?” 

Sherlock doesn’t appear to understand, as evidenced by the crease between his eyes John sometimes-but-not-really lovingly refers to as his _Ordinary People Perplex Me_ face. 

“The Floor Is Lava?” John tries again. 

That damned crease deepens. 

“Nevermind.” John leaves for work. 

When he returns, eight hours later, Sherlock is standing on the couch looking incredibly bored and confused at the same time. “This game is atrocious.” 

John hangs up his coat. “What game?” 

“The lava game.” 

 John scrutinizes Sherlock, whose arms are peevishly folded across his chest. “The objective is to get to the other side of the room, you know.” 

Sherlock’s expression shifts, just so. A touch of color in his cheeks. “I knew that.” 

“No, you didn’t.” John tosses the Union Jack pillow on the floor between the coffee table and his chair. “Go on, then.” 

Sherlock hesitates. John isn’t sure if he’s contemplating not playing because he’s too self-conscious or because—John mouths an ‘oh’. Steps up onto the couch. Sherlock is a brilliant man, seemingly incapable of lacking in self-confidence and impervious to humiliation, but John knows better. Sherlock may not feel things the way most people feel them, but he feels them all the same. And if there’s one thing Sherlock is uncomfortable with, it’s jumping in with both feet without sufficient data.  

“I’ll show you,” John says. From the coffee table, to the Union Jack pillow, and then a giant step onto his chair. “See?” He settles himself into his seat and reaches for the morning paper he discarded after breakfast in favor of witnessing Sherlock wreak havoc of Mycroft’s security measures. 

He can see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. From the couch to the coffee table. To the pillow. He perches one foot on the arm of John’s chair and John doesn’t think he’s actually going to climb across his lap, but who is he kidding? 

“If the floor is lava,” Sherlock says, redistributing his weight so that’s he’s straddling John’s lap, his bony feet digging into John’s thighs. “Then you’ve lost your legs.” 

“I’m not playing right now.” 

Sherlock is thoughtful. John wishes he would contemplate whatever it is he’s mulling over somewhere else. It’s hard to read through Sherlock’s legs. “Does the floor have to be lava?” 

“What do you want the floor to be?” 

“Cashmere.” 

John presses his lips together. Cashmere totally defeats the purpose of the game. Where’s the incentive? Why would anyone avoid touching cashmere? “I don’t…” 

Sherlock balls his hands into fists. He looks around the room at nothing in particular. “Your legs burned off,” he mutters. 

“But I wasn’t play—“ 

“Your legs burned off.” 

Now he understands. John scratches his head. Hides a smile behind his hand. Looks up at Sherlock bemusedly. “Alright, yes. The floor can be cashmere,” John says into his palm. The fondness Sherlock elicits is unmatched and John wonders, not for the first time, if Sherlock knows how charming he is when he’s not trying to gain someone’s confidence or favor. When it’s just the two of them. “Cashmere works.”


	48. Cirrus

Sherlock and John take a detour through the park. Because John has an insatiable desire to eat morning, noon, and night and Sherlock knows that if John isn’t fed in a timely manner, he’ll lapse into a stropy silence, wistful little noises in the back of this throat when they pass an establishment that may or may not resemble a restaurant. ( _If it smells good, what of it?_ ) If his hunger reaches critical levels, John will moan like a cat in heat until Sherlock relents and carries his starving arse to the nearest vending machine. 

John is happily eating a basket of fish and chips at present. Sherlock has noticed he executes a happy-dance, of sorts. Kin to his _yay-murder_ hop/leap for joy. Only, instead of blood and bullets, it’s ketchup and carbohydrates. John licks his fingers, practically wiggling where he sits on the bench, and it’s probably one of the…cutest…things Sherlock has ever seen. 

Sherlock hates the word cute. A bit twee and la, but the fact stands. So he doesn’t understand why John is fascinated with kittens tumbling off of shelves, so what? Like many things in the world, endearing behavior is subjective. 

Sherlock hates the word subjective, too. It’s outright lazy. 

John looks up at the sky. At the clouds. _Cirrus,_ Sherlock thinks. A full belly tends to make John whimsical. Sherlock can tell by the movement of his eyes that John is logging and classifying the random data supported by tiny droplets of water and ice crystals. Apophenia, meaningful patterns or connections, pareidolia. Sherlock is pleased to note his observational skills are rubbing off on John. First clouds, next dead bodies. 

“What do you see, there?” Sherlock asks, pointing. 

John tilts his head to one side. “Sort of looks like a rabbit wearing a strap-on.” 

Sherlock bristles. Not exactly what he thought John would say. 

“Why? What do you see?” 

“The small intestine of an adolescent gibbon, obviously.” 

John squints. Tilts his head in the other direction. “Seriously? I…” Nudges Sherlock once he realizes his flatmate is having him on. “What do you really see?” 

“A rabbit wearing a strap-on,” Sherlock is loath to admit. 

John laughs. 

“Power of suggestion.” Gestures to John’s empty basket with his chin. “Ready?” 

John bins his lunch. They make for the Yard, falling in stride. Before they leave the park, John stops Sherlock with a quiet “Um.” and his eyes are trained on the kinky rabbit somewhere to the left of Sherlock’s ear. “Thank you. For.” John shoves his hands in his pockets. “The break.” 

Sherlock feels the stirrings of what he’s discovered is referred to as butterflies. He doesn’t like that word, either. Not in this case. Not butterflies. John inspires something more manly. More dangerous. Medevac, air ambulance, Sikorsky S-76. An entire war, even. “You were hungry,” Sherlock reminds him. 

“Yes, I—“ John smiles. Leans forward on his toes to kiss Sherlock on the mouth. “Yes.” 

Sherlock prefers not to eat while on a case, but John tastes of salt and butter and cooking oil and Sherlock is amenable every now and again. 


	49. Scintillation

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” 

John is insistent and wonderfully coherent, but Sherlock isn’t ready to believe him. Not until the ambulance arrives and the meds substantiate John’s claims that he’s alright, fine, or any other variant of _acceptable_ in the English language. Sherlock can’t tear his eyes away from the blood dribbling down John’s nose, his neck, staining the collar of his shirt a shade of red all too familiar. Hexadecimal codes, rooms of swatch-wallpaper adorning his Mind Palace. Cut crooked, overlapping, tacked with bits of bone. And he stitched the button hole of his coat himself. Sherlock knows. He knows how much blood is too much. (Doesn’t he? What if he’s wrong? What if John’s bleeding to death? Would John tell him? Would he lie? Sherlock would. He would lie.) 

Sherlock holds John tighter. The pavement is wet and cold and puddles of rainwater are soaking Sherlock’s trousers. An undercurrent of music, velvet gold against Sherlock’s skin, a pulse of energy floating on the breeze. The smell of drugs and sweating bodies still lingering in his nostrils. Sherlock tears a glove off with his teeth. Clamps his hand around the back of John’s neck. Feeling his warmth, his pulse, squeezing hard. 

John’s nose whistles in Sherlock’s ear. Broken. Probably. John promises, “I’m okay.” Then, “You’re okay.” 

Stupid. Of course Sherlock isn’t okay. Sherlock isn’t okay because John isn’t okay. Sherlock isn’t sure when or how or _for-the-love-of-God_ why, but the compromise of John Watson’s safety—the usual ‘could be dangerous’ notwithstanding—is linked directly to Sherlock’s ability to function under stress. Worse than H.O.U.N.D., his body shaking uncontrollably. His mind replaying the unfortunate events leading to John’s incapacitation, over and over. Lead pipe, generic ne’er-do-well number two, and somebody played cricket as a child. Once to the face, twice to the shoulder. Bam, bam, bam. 

Given the chance, Sherlock would pry off John’s assailant’s fingernails with nothing but a bamboo chute and a will that would not be denied. 

Sherlock recognizes the signs that he’s hyperventilating. Can’t stop. Out of his control. Everything is out of his control and John can’t leave him. He isn’t allowed. Sherlock is dying first; they’ve already discussed this. ( _Wasn’t John listening?_ ) He can’t go yet. What if he doesn’t wait? What if he doesn’t wait on Sherlock? Sherlock can wait. He’s good at waiting. He can be patient. He can be patient for John. 

“We’re okay,” John says. 

Sherlock huffs. That’s it, isn’t it? _We’re_ okay. No more you and I or me, but we and us. 

John has no idea. No fucking idea how much he means to Sherlock. Cognizant of a _fraction_ of his devotion. Only a fraction. He jumped off of a roof for John, spent three years away from London, _The Work_ , and John for John. It was enough, at the time, to ascertain that John was his closest friend—a friend worth sacrificing his reputation for, his calling in life for, his very purpose on this earth for. The nights he laid awake on the other side of the world, contemplating what in the hell persuaded him to give up the opportunities to prove his cleverness for one man. One man with a psychosomatic limp and trust issues. It nearly knocked the breath out of him, chiseling away the excuses and the lies guarding his shriveled, little heart. It scares him shitless to think what he won’t do for John. 

And John will never know. Because Sherlock will never tell him. How can he explain something that has no words or definition? Sherlock has lived his entire life wounded by his intellect, his disdain for others, and their resultant derision. John is a salve. Healing him and hurting him simultaneously. His feelings for John eclipse rationalization, a glimmer of emotion, like atmospheric scintillation. It’s enough to go by, Sherlock thinks, if this is what a fraction of the sentiment John inspires reduces him to. A mess of uncommon nonsense. 

John chuckles. Sherlock frowns against his hair. 

“You’re hurting me.” 

Sherlock eases his grip. “I would find that man and make him beg for mercy.” 

“Mmm, not good.” 

“I said would, not will.” Sherlock closes his eyes. “I would if you asked.” He doesn’t say, _I would do anything if you asked._ because it’s not true. In this moment, though, it feels true. 

“I know,” John murmurs.

Sherlock firmly believes there is no possible way for John to feel as deeply and as destructively as Sherlock feels for John because John is a good man. An honest man. But there’s no doubt in his mind that it’s a mutual scintillation obscuring the truth from the both of them. And that’s okay for now. John’s okay. 

They’re okay. 


	50. Albedo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes!

Sherlock has poor circulation. His fingers and his toes are always freezing cold. Which explains his tendency to wear his greatcoat all year round and Sherlock swears up and down it isn’t because he thinks it looks cool. ( _Black absorbs heat, okay?_ ) John thinks Sherlock is full of shit, but he can’t prove Sherlock is or isn’t lying based on terrestrial albedo or the number of times Sherlock pops his damn collar within a span of twenty-four hours, can he? 

Sherlock sticks his hands under John’s armpits. Curls his toes behind John’s ‘knee pits’, as Sherlock calls them even though John has told him the term is Popliteal Fossa. This is the part where John normally kicks Sherlock off. Forces him to return to his side of the bed because _five more minutes, please_. John bites the bullet today of all days. While Sherlock gets his way ninety-nine percent of the time, twenty-four/seven and three-sixty-five, he’s earned a compliant bedfellow, John thinks. 

Sherlock complains that the inside of his nose is cold. He exhales against the nape of John’s neck; John lets Sherlock breathe on him for as long as he likes. “Happy Birthday,” John says. Rolls over and kisses his tepid mouth, sliding his tongue under Sherlock’s superior labial frenulum. Or ‘that thing that’s not the uvula…what th’ bloody hell is it, John?’. Suckles his upper lip so it’s nice and warm and pliant, kneads it between his teeth. But Sherlock isn’t fond of morning-breath. So he snuggles his face against John’s neck, huffing and puffing. 

“Cold,” he grumbles. 

“Yes, alright.” John yawns. “I’d gift wrap the perfect crime, but…” Yawns again. 

“No such thing,” Sherlock tells his clavicle. 

Tilts his head back. “Could say thank you.” 

“Thank you…” ( _And that is very nice. Right there, Sherlock. Right—yes._ ) Sweetens the deal with a particularly lascivious, “…John.” 

“Mmm, could say it again.” 

“Not your birthday,” Sherlock reminds him, open-mouthed kisses on John’s shoulder. 

“Oh. Right. Damn.”


	51. Navigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back and forth on whether I should commit myself to a fic-fic project. I haven't committed to a novel-length anything, typing bits and pieces here and there, but then I started working on this chapter, which is more Kid!lock. So maybe this is the start of something? I have no idea, but I hope so.

“You’re an idiot.” are the first words Sherlock Holmes speaks to—rather, _at_ —John Watson. _How fitting_ , John will muse years later. But at the time of their pronouncement, John does not regard Sherlock’s insult very fondly.

John opens his eyes unto the face of a boy he doesn’t recognize. A backdrop of stars twinkle betwixt rampant curls and John, momentarily, is under the impression he’s died and a cherubic Angel of Death is bent upon the reaping of his soul. The handlebars of John’s bike are lodged in mud. Spokes tick-ticking, the front wheel spinning crookedly on its axle. John gasps. Belated shock. Feels his heart kick-start into overdrive.

“You’re bleeding,” the boy says around the sucker in his mouth. He gnaws on the candy like a wee beastie, his voice soft and cold like silk on steel. 

John touches his forehead. Hisses. Fingers return tipped with blood. “Nice.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

John struggles to stand, his knees sinking deep in residual silt. Tries not to feel slighted when the boy neither offers his help nor his condolences, but John has an inkling he’s fraternizing with a distant relation of the pricks who own half of the hill. Pleated wing, partially untucked. Bowtie hanging askew around his wiry neck. The boy holds himself with the impudent distinction of landed gentry. Despite his Edwardian pallor, John’s first impression is _scapegrace_. “Who are you?”

“I’m six tomorrow.”

John opens and closes his mouth. “Are you lost?”

“Mycroft says I need to make a good impression.” 

John blinks. Must’ve hit his head harder than he thought. Concussed. That would explain the boy’s abject failure to answer his questions. Or it could be that John isn’t speaking coherently. Could be the language center of his brain is on the fritz and he’s waxing rhapsodic in Farsi. “I’m John Watson. What’s your name?” John tries again, enunciating his words.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John climbs to his feet. He spits the blood out of his mouth, turns his bike right side up. Sherlock watches and waits, his mercurial eyes sparkling in the wake of John’s theatrical bluster. Lays it on thick, hoping to impress Scapegrace. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock Holmes will neglect to report John’s trespassing to an authority figure. So he utilizes what his mother refers to as the Watson death-glare. A proverbial cherry on top. Sherlock, however, is as intimidated by John’s posturing as alcohol exclusion laws intimidate Harry. Very little. John is helplessly impressed with Sherlock’s gumption.

“Won’t your mother be worrying after you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s lips twist into something resembling a smile. His cherry flavored sucker has stained his mouth red. If John didn’t hold himself to the bravery standards of his late father, Sherlock might creep him out. “Jim Moriarty is scared of you. I like that.”

John doesn’t, if he’s honest with himself. “Why?”

“Because you’re perfect and I want you.” Sherlock offers John his hand to hold.

John’s palms are crusted with dirt. Stained with blood. He doesn’t believe for one second Sherlock means what he implies. Dainty fingernails, glinting in the light of the moon. John flexes his hand, all but prepared for Sherlock to rescind his offer the moment John reaches for him. He’s pleasantly surprised when Sherlock fails to meet his expectations. He does not balk, does not flinch when John tentatively runs his fingers over the metacarpals of Sherlock’s lily-white hand, soiling his knuckles.

“There,” Sherlock breathes. “You’re mine.”

Somewhere, deep down, John knows this is no chance encounter. This. _This_ deserves the cliché, but appropriate magnitude of the term fate.

“Sherlock…”

John starts. Turns to find himself face-to-face with a teenager. Airs and graces like a second skin, conducting his every step, poetry in motion. His hair is styled within an inch of its life, combed over a domed brow John associates with a scholar of the highest caliber. Even in the dark of the night, John can tell he and Sherlock are family. They both exude a grandiose bearing that’s almost palpable in nature.

“It’s not safe to wander alone,” the young man tells Sherlock, but his eyes are trained on John. “Mummy will be concerned if she finds you missing.”

Sherlock grips John’s hand tightly. “This is John. He’s mine. I found him.”

“That’s hardly acceptable.”

“John belongs to me, Mycroft.”

A shift of the shoulders, a tilt of the head, as poised and polished as you please. “Really. Do you belong to my little brother, John?”

Sherlock clings with both hands. John can feel the apprehension in his gaze from somewhere in the vicinity of his elbow. He does not belong to a child. Not remotely. The conviction with which Sherlock lobbied for John’s ownership is…touching…all things considered. John is flattered in spite of himself. He evaluates his response before he verifies, “I’m Sherlock’s friend.” The crux of his argument is debatable; Sherlock antagonized him conscious not five minutes ago. But the fact remains that Sherlock’s possessiveness pleases John to no end.

It’s nice to be wanted.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, as if his brother’s name is a threat in and of itself, “we’re leaving.”

Sherlock scratches the back of John’s hand. An odd and painful way to remember him by. Sherlock grasps the cuff of Mycroft’s dinner jacket. John watches after them until the darkness obscures their figures navigating the alcove toward home.


	52. Magnitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for missing so many days unintentionally (work-related and friend-related), please accept this reunion drabble. Another apology drabble due tomorrow, which will be kiss centric. I incorporated Elementary’s “I’m going to miss this.” speech, which aired Thursday.

The feelings Sherlock has for John are unquantifiable. Like the universe. Larger than life, the consummation of light and thought and breath and panting. In and out and in again, noxious fumes burning inside Sherlock’s chest. Combustible, fissile isotopes uranium-235 and plutonium-239. He can’t—he can’t breathe. Oxygen is not enough anymore. Who in the hell wishes this upon themselves? This overbearing, _micro-explosions-beneath-his-skin_ love? 

Sherlock can’t stand it. Absolutely cannot stand it. Wants to claw at his flesh, break open his body if only the pressure and the pain and the awful, awful, awful tepidity! Luke warm, spit it out of his mouth, but he can’t. He won’t. Because it’s John and he would suffer many deaths and resurrections and untold amounts of boredom if John will just…just.

That’s all. Just. Him.

Sherlock is writhing internally. John’s strong arms circling his chest, holding him close, and Sherlock would rather John punch him in the face. It would hurt less. 

God, how can ordinary people stand these feelings? A superior specimen though he may be, he’s incapable of compartmentalizing the overabundance of gratitude and admiration and sheer joy John arouses in his heart, his head, his bloody toes for all Sherlock knows. Every square inch of him hyperaware of John’s hands flat against his back, John’s head on his shoulder. Points of contact, live wires. The feedback nearly sends Sherlock over the edge. Almost makes him scream with the intensity of it. Scream, bite, curse as he dissolves under the unashamed affection in John’s voice, in his eyes.  

John is slowly destroying him, piece by piece. Sherlock wants to destroy, too. 

Sherlock says his name. A cry of sweet despondency not altogether human. Detonates within his mouth, open fire, semi-automatic. Sherlock yearns to apologize. _I’m sorry for leaving you behind, I’m sorry I made a mistake, I’m sorry you’re feeling what I’m feeling right now because it hurts like hell._  

“I looked everywhere for you,” John rasps.

 _I know,_ Sherlock doesn’t reply. He clings to John. Knuckles aching with the force of his grip. He missed this. Well, not this. But _this_. He’d almost forgotten…how amazing John is. How his sense of home manifested itself in the shape of his dearest friend, utterly and completely, and John draws back. Damn near takes Sherlock’s heart with him. Lurching like it’s trying to follow, trying to minimize the distance between the two of them because nothing on this Earth will separate Sherlock and John so cruelly ever again. 

Sherlock shuts his eyes tight. Preserving the raw twinge John leaves behind. Wavers where he sits. John holds his face in his hands. Watery laughter dancing in Sherlock’s ears. “You look like shit.” 

Sherlock won’t open his eyes yet; John is rubbing his thumbs over his cheekbones. More pronounced, probably, since _The Fall_. “Yes,” is all he manages to speak. But that’s all right. He has time. He has all the time in the world to say everything one hundred times over if he wishes. Sherlock smiles. He doesn’t remember the last time he smiled. Not like this. Chuckles faintly, trusting John with the weight of his head. He’s so tired. He’s quaking with exhaustion and relief like cocaine. Fuzzy wool threading through his veins. 

John’s lips linger upon Sherlock’s brow. “Oh my God.” John’s voice cracks. “Sher—“ Swallows. Holds it in. Grunts with the effort. Forehead to forehead when he’s finally able to ask, “Sherlock, how?” 

Sherlock opens his eyes. Transfixed by John’s crumbling restraint, his failure to rein in his happiness, his anguish, his fear, his fury. But, predominately, happiness. His mouth, while marred by his efforts to stem a tide of tears, resembles a smile Sherlock memorized and cited on more than one occasion over the past three years. _His mouth._ Sherlock touches John’s lips. Fingertips once calloused from abusing his violin grown soft from neglect. 

John chokes on a, “Why?” An odd noise in the pit of his throat. Derelict vowel on the tip of his tongue, on the pad of Sherlock’s index. 

“Later,” Sherlock tries to convince him. “I’ll explain everything later.” Explores the divots on John’s cheek, around the back of his neck. “Just…” he says, edging closer. Breath ghosting across John’s lips. 

“Fuck me,” John moans. And Sherlock is pretty sure his statement is one of resignation, not a request. Still, he’s no less enthusiastic when Sherlock kisses him in earnest, their mouths sliding together in perfect syncopation.  


	53. Zoom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second apology drabble. Kisses! (I'm not the best at writing them and I used Zoom poorly so I hope it's okay!) Also, up to the 140s have been booked with words. You guys can keep submitting if you like. I'll let you know when I'm full up.

Sherlock climbs the stairs to John’s bedroom and darts underneath the covers. 

“Whassit?” John slurs, stirred awake by Sherlock’s presence looming in the dark, pulsing around the edges, manic energy and flyaway hair. All the signs of a case. When Sherlock is absorbed in a new, macabre puzzle to solve, he zooms around the flat. Ricocheting off the furniture like a pinball. John hides his face in his pillow. He doesn’t want to be zoomed. “What is it?” he mumbles. 

“Thinking.” 

“Why aren’t you thinking in your bed?” 

“Your bed is warmer.” 

John doesn’t have to point out that his bed is warmer because he’s been asleep in his bed for the past three hours; Sherlock is fully aware of the inner workings of the human body, but he’s not about to argue semantics at the buttcrack of dawn. “Where’s Billy?” Sneaks a peek at Sherlock when he feels him settle on his side, the tips of his toes prodding John’s ankles. “Mrs. Hudson. Right. Just. Start at the beginning. Walk me through it.” 

Sherlock touches John’s shoulder. “The victim was stabbed here.” Trails his fingers down John’s side. Fishes around for the hem of his t-shirt. Tugs it loose, sliding his hand under John’s belly. John’s eyes snap wide open. Arches his back a little so Sherlock can reach his abdominals. “Here.” Sherlock rolls John over. Methodic and slow and sexy as hell. “And here.” Dragging his hand down John’s thigh. Squeezes tight. Leans in close to whisper, “No vital organs damaged. I would suppose that we’re looking for a medical man, but the wounds bear signs of hesitancy and insufficient practice with the scalpel found at the scene of the crime.” 

John licks his lips. His voice is husky when he says, “Mm. Keep going.” 

“Victim showed signs of bruising...” John objects mutely when the warm weight of Sherlock’s hand abandons its post. Skims across the drawstring of his pajama bottoms, catching his thumb on the hem of John’s t-shirt again. Flicks his wrist. Rides up his stomach, exposing his midsection. Sherlock drags his knuckles across John’s ribcage, the crook of his arm, and caresses his wrist. “…here.” Then the other. “And here. The chafing indicates she was bound with nylon rope. Victim says her husband, wearing a toboggan, eyeholes cut into the material. That’s important, John. He attacked her. Knocked her down on the floor.” Sherlock straddles John on his knees. Pins his arms against the bed, repositions his hands against the headboard. “Like so. But it couldn’t have been her husband.” 

John marshals the brainpower to ask, “Why not?” Laughs appreciatively when Sherlock settles in his lap. 

“Humidifier in the bedroom. Not hers, his. He sleeps on the right side of the bed. _Esquire_ magazines stuffed in the bedside drawer. The husband is afflicted with chronic sinus congestion. This time of year? He has a hard enough time breathing without a mask obstructing his airways.” Sherlock swoops in for the kill. Or the kiss. Whichever. “Especially his mouth,” he says against John’s lips. 

“Is this you propositioning me?” 

“This is me propositioning you.” 

John kisses him. Once. Twice. Three times, drawing delightful little buzzes of pleasure hot and fresh from Sherlock’s repertoire of subvocal compliments only John will ever hear. Deepens the kiss, pulling gently at Sherlock’s hair until he complies, angling his face right— _yes_. Right there. “Not’su comhmain,” John groans when Sherlock is fully engaged suckling on his bottom lip. “’Ut why?” 

“Basal ganglia,” Sherlock tries to explain, but John makes it difficult for him. Licking the ‘occupied with a routine task’ out of the roof of his mouth. “ _Ah_ —allowing my.” Grunts when John pushes him over and peppers Sherlock’s philtrum, his chin with kisses. “Prefrontal— _John! Let me finish._ Cortex to solve the case.” 

“So the question is…” John nuzzles Sherlock’s neck. Breathes, “…who really attacked the wife?” 

“No. The wife orchestrated the entire assault, obviously.” 

“Obviously.” Kisses down his throat. “What are you trying to solve, then?” 

“Why she bothered to have someone stab her more than once.” 

“Bit excessive.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock tilts his head back. _“Yes.”_ Suddenly sits up straight, dislodging John entirely. “That’s it!” Leaps off the bed and runs down the stairs. “You’re fantastic, John!” And it’s a little bit sad Sherlock’s praise still makes John’s blush like a teenaged girl. He’s got it bad for a mad genius, though, so he’s allowed to be soppy every now and then.


	54. Mauve

Sherlock and John are locked inside an industrial freezer. 

Well. Not locked. Industrial freezers don’t just _lock_ from the outside or inside with no safety measures installed, the manufacturer’s guarantee their product is what John calls ‘idiot proof’, but— _fun fact_ —there is no failsafe for a certain pair of idiots knocked unconscious and barricaded behind the slabs of maybe-perhaps-beef. 

Sherlock can’t reach anyone on his mobile. John’s phone fell out of his pocket in the processing plant. Sherlock tells John that Mycroft is way too nosey and his daily regimen of undercover work will yield their imminent rescue, not to worry, they’re in comparatively good hands. After two hours of jogging in place, and after Sherlock has grown tired of sending failed ‘Fuck you. SH’ texts to his brother, the energy it takes to resent Mycroft is just too taxing. 

John is sure he would be amused if, you know. He wasn’t dying. 

The boredom incubating inside Sherlock’s resplendent mind slowly corrodes his good sense. When he argues how mauve _is a most ostentatious color John. I should wear it more often._ Or when he starts deducing the mating habits of Holstein, John fears for Sherlock’s sanity. Afraid he’ll lie down and die because it’s vastly more entertaining than watching John try to remember the _Electric Slide_. John’s shoulder begins to ache. Seizing up. He rolls his head from side to side, stretches the muscles in his neck as best he can. His arms are folded across his chest to keep his core warm. 

Sherlock’s mind is whirring, his eyes darting from the livers to the ventilation to every nook and cranny, long legs carrying him from one end of the freezer to the other. Irritated. John imagines he’s quite warm, working himself up like that. 

“C-Come here,” John orders him. He’s surprised at the tremor in his voice. Teeth chattering. “W-We’ll last longer if. If. If we ssshare body heat.” 

Sherlock manages to button his coat around John’s back, drawing him close and closer and— _okay, ow._ “Wait. No, no, it isn’t working.” Sherlock’s arms bent awkwardly from the pull of his coat, and he looks like a fat scarecrow. Sherlock hisses. Unbuttons his coat, pulls his arms out of its sleeves, rebuttons, and pulls the Belstaff over their heads, which looks even sillier. Like a posh burrito wearing sensible shoes, but their heads are trapped inside and their breath is warming their faces so it could be worse. 

John convinces Sherlock they need to keep their blood pumping. They sway back and forth stiffly and John is suddenly nostalgic. Secondary school, dancing with a girl he fancied, his two left feet. John wonders if Sherlock participated in anything as ordinary as a school dance. He wonders if Sherlock even knows how to dance. Not ballroom dancing, dancing-dancing. He can’t picture it. But he pictures Sherlock in mauve very easily. 

It’s nice. In a _this-is-really-weird-and-I’m-a-bit-uncomfortable_ way. Sherlock’s chin brushing against John’s ear, Sherlock’s hips swaying to whatever music he’s conducting in his mind. Grumbling pissily and fits of rage subdued to mere tremors in his limbs and the belligerent stamping of his feet. Never once steps on John’s toes, though. 

“You’ve never danced with a man,” Sherlock observes after a while. 

John’s head is resting on Sherlock’s chest. He feels ridiculous, but incrementally warmer than before. He’s having a hard time caring about the heteronormative voice having a stroke somewhere in his hindbrain because it’s fine, really. It’s all fine. “Why would I’ve danced with a man?” A beat of silence. “Have y-you danced with a man?” 

“You always lead.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.” Of course not. But John knows Sherlock’s weakness. Curveballs. “I haven’t danced with a bloke before, no. Wouldn’t mind dancing with a few.” 

Sherlock processes this new information. John can feel his body reacting to the stimulus of fresh data. “A few? Who?” 

“Man crushes.” 

“Man crushes?” 

“Yeah. You know. When you kind of envy their good looks and, ah, sparkling personality.” Clears his throat. “Kind of wish you were them. That sort of thing.” 

“You have a man crush?” Sherlock is most certainly intrigued. He’s all but repeated himself. “More than one?” 

“Who, me?” Like there’s another moron stuck inside an industrial freezer. “Um. Yes. Actually, Daniel Craig’s my favorite.” 

“Obvious.” 

“Go on, then.” 

“Go on what?” 

John doesn’t know how Sherlock does it. How he can look so damn affronted cohabiting his coat with a grown man. “Oh, don’t. Who? There must be someone.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock says bitterly. “I had a fondness.” Hesitates. “For Jeremy Brett, alright?” 

“Wh—“ John giggles. “Dr. Joseph Bell?” 

“Shut up.” 

“No, I.” John nods. “I can see it.” 

An indignant huff. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Presumably, to live.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

John smiles. His nose has found a nice, warm spot under Sherlock’s suit jacket, practically in his armpit, but John doesn’t care. He’s past caring. “Getting to know you.” _Very well,_ he thinks to himself. Sherlock’s deodorant is starting to wear off after all the running around they’ve been doing. 

“You already know me,” Sherlock complains quietly. 

“Getting to know you _better_.” 

Sherlock starts nosing around, too. Mirroring John because when in doubt, do as John does. Flattens his nostrils closed against the top of John’s head and exhales. “Tedious.” 

“I’m sorry. We can’t all be masters of deduction.” 

This is how Lestrade finds them. Waltzing blindly around the rack ribs. 


	55. Wisteria

Sherlock is very pretty. 

There’s nothing for it. He’s just…flat out gorgeous. Aesthetic features, prominent cheekbones, cat-like eyes, and artfully curled hair. There are times John can’t stand to look at him, honestly. But there are times he can’t bear to look away. Like tonight. 

Sherlock is speaking animatedly about his first, official case with the Yard. John has never heard this story before and he’s hanging on Sherlock’s every word. Sherlock never does anything by halves. He’s either on or off, traveling hundreds of kilometers an hour or standing perfectly still. So he’s capable of talking while barely moving at all. A nigh twitch of his lips. This evening, however, cedes the more energetic, the more passionate side of Sherlock. Arms waving, fingers splaying, gesticulating with his entire body. Poetry in motion. The lights cast Sherlock in a lovely glow. Purple. Wisteria, maybe? John doesn’t know. But it’s pretty. 

Sherlock is pretty. 

John may or may not be drunk. 

“…and then he said—do you know what he said to me?” Sherlock grins. Big and bold and, yeah. He’s a bit drunk, too. “He said to me—this is what he said to me— _piss off_. That’s what people—“ 

“Normally say,” John finishes for him. “Because they’re idiots.” 

Sherlock sips his wine. He doesn’t make a face like he usually does after taking a drink of coffee or tea or whatever else he deems suitable to quench his thirst. A little too tipsy for that. His taste buds are probably numb. Can’t taste the wine anymore.  “John, you are—“ He curbs a hiccup. “—magnanimous.” 

John rests his elbow on the table. Or tries to. He misses a few times. Plants his chin in the palm of his hand. “You’re beautiful.” He doesn’t realize he’s said this out loud until Sherlock starts giggling at him. “I meant to say brilliant, I did. Brilliant and, and amazing and I’d do anything for you, Sherlock, I really would.” 

“I know,” Sherlock whispers with more solemnity than he garners for the murdered dead. And that must mean something, John thinks. 

Angelo puts a candle on their table. Neither of them notices. 

 


	56. Cephalothorax

Sherlock is familiar with death. In fact, he would say he’s on a fist name basis. John is also familiar with death, but in a different manner entirely. Sherlock connects the dots, solves for X. He’s committed thousands of poisons and weapons and motives to memory because death is a sneaky bastard. John heals the wounded. Or kills them, depending.

The power to end or spare a life, Sherlock muses, could not rest upon a nobler pair of shoulders. 

Sherlock wakes to the sound of water boiling. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He vaguely recalls John mentioning something about a celebratory dinner in honor of their anniversary, which appeals to Sherlock about as much as a mental imagine of Anderson wearing a diaphanous teddy. Not that he doesn’t understand the one-year milestone of a relationship, particularly their relationship. He does. He just thinks it’s superfluous. Like birthdays or Christmas. 

Sherlock turns over on his stomach and gazes into the kitchen. John is standing at the sink, studying a lobster. He’s making _that_ face. The one Sherlock calls his _This Is Going To Hurt Me More Than It Hurts You_ face, which normally leads to prohibition including—but not limited to—nicotine patches, severed heads, and combustible materials. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks. 

“Cooking dinner.” 

Sherlock snorts. Of course he’s cooking dinner. What else could John have planned cradling a lobster in his hands, a large pot of water set to boil? Sherlock gathers the little energy he reserves for days bereft of murder and pads up behind John, his robe whipping around his calves. 

John doesn’t look at him when he explains, “The website said it’s better to cook them alive.” 

Sherlock peers over John’s shoulder. Carapace. Cephalothorax. Head, thorax, abdomen. Basically an overgrown cockroach of the sea. “Hard to imagine they smell worse dead.” 

“It’s looking at me, Sherlock.” 

“It has eyes, John.” 

“No, I mean. It’s _looking_ at me. Like it knows.” 

Sherlock highly doubts a lobster has the capacity for introspection. Or the ability to reconcile itself as an individual creature separate from the environment and other individual creatures, for that matter. 

“He’s scared, I bet.” 

“Don’t anthropomorphize your food,” Sherlock remarks. Takes the lobster away from John and walks around the kitchen table, bare feet slapping against the linoleum. Holds the lobster at arm’s length. It wiggles its legs frantically in protest. And because Sherlock has the capacity for introspection, he observes life and death and _good Lord he’s having second thoughts_. He drops the offending crustacean on the counter and glares at it miserably. John isn’t going to kill it and neither, apparently, is he because John’s made him all wishy-washy and there are plenty of experiments he can perform on a lobster, right? 

John makes a thoughtful noise that drives Sherlock distracted. “Gladstone?” 

“What?” 

“We could call it Gladstone.” 

Sherlock mouths, _Gladstone?_  

“I had a puppy, once. Named Gladstone.” 

“So, reasonably, you wish to name a lobster Gladstone.” 

“Piss off.” 

They surprise Mrs. Hudson with Gladstone twenty minutes later, after John and Sherlock realize a pet lobster is probably the worst idea they’ve ever had. John tells her it’s an anniversary present. When she asks, “The anniversary of what?” John replies: 

“The anniversary of our first case, _A Study in Pink_.” 

Sherlock thinks John is horribly romantic. John thinks Sherlock is amazing. 

They both get the hell out of Dodge when Mrs. Hudson invites them to stay for dinner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No lobsters were harmed in the writing of this drabble.


	57. Cerulean

Sherlock is not a romantic. 

He will never resort to verbosity or wax poetic on the fine and/or coarse texture of John’s hair or calculate the logarithmic curve of his nose or wage war on his brain in order to define John Watson’s eye color. No. Why would he? 

But if he did, Sherlock ruminates, he would settle for cerulean. In classical artistry, the term _cerulean_ was applied to all blue pigments. Mixtures of copper and cobaltous oxides, early attempts to create the ever elusive sky-blue. Rayleigh scattering, molecules of oxygen and nitrogen and white light. When the pigment cerulean was first invented, it superseded its predecessors most efficiently. 

John supersedes his predecessors, too. Sherlock has known a few companions in his lifetime, some of which more invigorating than others. (In every sense of the word.) Stimulants, appetite suppressants, anesthetics. Anything and everything to tame the chaos inside his head. To gag the ghosts of his past, peeling their vitriolic accusations from the synarthrodial joints of his neurocranium. John, though. John looks at Sherlock and his consummate loyalty needles his veins. Hot. Potent. Incredibly addicting. Washing away his insecurities, his reservations. 

John Watson is cerulean.  

And Sherlock isn’t a romantic.        


	58. Elven

“You’re beautiful,” John says. 

Sherlock believes him because it’s true. He knows it’s true based on a compilation of facts Sherlock consults when John admires his assets. Sherlock supposes he must be an attractive man. He’s not the genial sort so he’s not winning anyone over with his sparkling personality, even if John privately enjoys his dark sense of humor and vindictive tongue. Sherlock has every reason to think the majority of people who find him alluring are attracted to his intelligence. But maybe he’s wrong. 

Immaterial.  

John prods at his crows feet. Frowns at his reflection. Sherlock watches him from his chair, slightly confused. John is not a vain man. He is, however, subject to hubris, which Sherlock has come to associate with men of John’s stature and profession. But John isn’t most men. He dresses for comfort and convenience, not fashion. An almost Spartan lifestyle, really. And Sherlock’s brains, his cleverness, have never—not once—been seen as a threat. John finds him amazing. Spectacular. 

And beautiful. 

John is worth more than… _more_. Sherlock will not tell him so because he doesn’t know how. Can’t even articulate a decent idiom because gold doesn’t interest him, puzzles do, and puzzles only weigh heavy on Sherlock’s mind; the comparison is moot. It angers Sherlock that John regards himself poorly when he’s far more precious to Sherlock than any riddle, enigma, or murder the world has to offer. _The Work_  engages Sherlock. John enables him. 

Sherlock retains valuable information from each case he solves. Bits and pieces here and there, whatever strikes him as largely pertinent. For John? Sherlock’s dedicated more space on his hard drive than is necessary for one person. And he periodically makes room for more. 

More. John’s worth it. 

John sighs. Straights the lapel of his tuxedo. “Well, I mean, look at you.” Gestures to Sherlock’s mirror image. “With your hair and your face and—you’re like a bloody elf or something. You’re making me look bad.”  

Sherlock pockets his mobile and moves to stand behind John. Waits for him to fix his tie to his liking. “John,” he begins. But he doesn’t have any words. Not any that make sense. How can he convey his thoughts properly when he himself doesn’t understand them? John trumps comparable language, perhaps. Sherlock opts for the next best thing. He looks at John and thinks, _Stop it._ Then, _Do you hear me? Am I reaching you?_  

John offers Sherlock a small smile. “Right.” Stands a little straighter. “Good.” 

A knock on the door diverts Sherlock’s attention. Mycroft strides into the flat at his leisure as if he owns the place, ubiquitous umbrella hanging on the crook of his arm. “Don’t we look sharp,” he pontificates, but his smile is genuine. “Your chariot awaits, gentlemen.” 

“Yes, thank you.” John’s eyes are fixed on Sherlock. “Give us a moment. Alone.” 

“It would be remiss of me not to mention that the ceremony is due to begin within the hour.” 

“It can wait.” John’s tone brooks no arguments. 

Mycroft graciously excuses himself. 

Sherlock smirks. He loves it when John asserts his authority. 

John chuckles, but Sherlock can hear his reservations loud and clear. _Why me? How me?_ Not so much cold feet as unforgiving introspection and perspective. 

“Because there’s no one else,” Sherlock says. 

John believes him because it’s true. 


	59. Liquorice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, but I had fun!

A mouse scampers across the living room floor and disappears amongst Sherlock’s discarded sheet music. 

John looks at Sherlock, who’s pretending he hasn’t noticed a single thing. ( _Yeah right._ ) Keeps composing, scribbles a few notes with a flourish of his pen. Actually, John’s pen. But what’s John’s is Sherlock’s and what’s Sherlock’s John restricts to the second shelf in the refrigerator. 

John turns a page of his paper. Hunting for anything suspicious. Or what Sherlock considers suspicious. “Abandoned car on Whitehall,” he reads. 

A hint of a smile. “No.” John is rewarded with a single, sweet note. “What else?” 

John nods at the mess in the floor at Sherlock’s feet. “Mouse.” 

A frown this time. “No.” 

“Fine. I’ll call an exterminator.” 

Sherlock doesn’t like that idea, either. Doesn’t want just anyone rummaging around his things. Nor does he want to start an argument about strangers in the flat lest John suggest they get their hands dirty chasing vermin. The only pests he feels obligated to hunt down are murderous, human ones. “Fine,” Sherlock grudgingly agrees. The proceeding note is a tad on the piercing side. 

 

 

Sherlock comes home to find John on his hands and knees. “C’mere you little bugger.” Reaches as far as he can under the couch. 

“What happened to the exterminator?” 

John starts. Looks at Sherlock guiltily. “I didn’t call one. Thought I could manage.” John clears his throat. Brandishes a strand of liquorice and clicks his tongue, tantalizing what Sherlock presumes is the mouse from yesterday. 

Sherlock takes off his coat. He rolls up his shirt sleeves. Kneels down beside John, balancing on the balls of his feet. 

“I’m trying to lure him out.” 

“If I lift the—“ 

“Yes, on three.” 

Sherlock moves into position. On John’s, “Three!” he heaves the couch off the ground and John dives for the— _scrambling up Sherlock’s leg!_ Sherlock drops the couch and claps his hands over his crotch because _holy shit!_ Tiny, little claws digging into his thigh! Sherlock falls over on his back, kicking furiously. Thank God John has quick reflexes; he avoided what might have been a serious head injury, but now he’s fending off the heels of Sherlock’s Leeds. 

“It’s in my!” Sherlock squeaks. 

“Where?” John asks unnecessarily because it’s quite obvious _where_. The only thought running helter-skelter through his mind is, _It’s going to bite him and rabies shots and oh my God!_ Clamps his hand down on Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock is already undoing his belt. 

“Get it out!” 

Down with the zip, John grasping— _no_. Chasing the mouse under— _oh God_. Under Sherlock’s arse, out of his trousers, and John’s arm is effectively pinned. The mouse scurries back under the couch. 

Sherlock gasps for breath. 

“Did it bite you?” John asks.  

“No.” 

John waits. And waits. Honestly surprised Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or Mycroft hasn’t walked in on them yet. “This is awkward.” 

“A bit.” 

They can’t stop laughing once they’ve started and it takes John several attempts to free his arm from Sherlock’s trousers, which makes it even funnier. John clings to Sherlock for support. Shoulders shaking, eyes brimming with tears. John prefaces even more laughter with, _“A bit!”_ and Sherlock still hasn’t managed to re-zip his fly. “I’m crying! Sherlock!” Forehead to forehead, snorting the remnants of their giggle fits, wiping at each other’s faces. John kisses Sherlock soundly on the mouth. And on the teeth, because Sherlock can’t stop smiling. Neither can John. 

“Please tell me that’s not going on your blog.” 

“Mmm, I dunno. _The Adventure of the Resident Rodent_ sounds pretty catchy to me.” 


	60. Quintessential

Sherlock depends on John. Relies on him, reflexively, like he relies on his cardiovascular system to carry blood cells and nutrients through his body. John is Sherlock’s reason for living. Saccharine and sordid and true, unfortunately. Give the man a puzzle and watch him dance. Give the man a friend and watch him die for three years. 

John hasn’t always been there, but he’s always _been there_. Customarily stern, sometimes stubborn. Ready and willing to bend the laws, break the rules. A nudge in the right direction. Follow Sherlock’s lead no matter the risk or the reward. He’s quintessential. So fucking quintessential, the thought of living without John is unbearable. 

This strikes Sherlock square in the chest for no reason whatsoever. John is washing dishes in the sink because _body parts do not belong in the dishwasher, Sherlock!_ Sodden jumper sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sound of water sloshing and cutlery clinking. John is barefoot, at ease. Posture perfect. He stands straight for every occasion, be it conversing with Mycroft Holmes or scrubbing congealed pasta sauce from Mrs. Hudson’s good spatula. 

He’s humming a tune Sherlock recognizes. One of his scores. Mediocre, Sherlock thinks, but John seems to be enjoying himself. 

Sherlock pads closer, abandoning his microscope. Something more interesting has caught his attention. Grey hairs, in particular. Reaches out to touch, leans in to smell. To taste. Kisses the back of John’s head. 

John stops humming. Stops washing the dishes. Stutters at the contact, Sherlock’s hand at the small of his back. He closes his eyes. 

“John?” 

“Mm?” 

“Stay.” It’s almost a question. 

And “You…” is almost an answer. The way he kisses Sherlock most certainly is. John is soaking wet, but Sherlock doesn’t care. John’s hands are slippery and warm against his belly, prune-y fingers sliding across his skin, skating under his ribs. Water trickling down his torso and John says, “Yes.” Feeds on Sherlock’s sigh of relief. “Yes. Anything. Yes.” Their lips slide together aimlessly. Tongues graze briefly, eliciting a delightful moan in the pit of John’s throat. 

Sherlock crowds John against the sink, deepens the kiss. His chest hurts. He has to say it. He has to say it or he might die. Bottled up inside him—deep inside him, where it’s dark and dank and loveless—and he had no idea how lethal these feelings would prove to be. Like methane. And his heart is the canary in the coal shaft. He’s never been able to keep anything like this to himself. Evidence, the kind that changes the course of an entire case. It needs to be said. It needs to be said. _It needs to be said._  

“I…” Full to bursting. John’s fingernails scratching softly at his shoulders. Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands. Cold, dry, but John’s heat steadily warms them. Warms  _him_. Through and through. “John, I…” Grits his teeth. John exists, soft and strong in all the right ways, and he can say it. He can say it for John. “I love you.” 

John undresses Sherlock slowly. Loves him slowly, thoroughly. Once it’s been said, it’s easier to say again and again and again, punctuating John’s hands just there, his mouth on his— _yes_ —and gasping, gasping, gasping for more. I love you. I love you. I love you. Each caress, each kiss. Each roll of John’s hips is his reply. He whispers the words in Sherlock’s ear, shouts them at his heart. Loud and clear. “I love you, too.”   


	61. Lapis Lazuli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation from the previous chapter.

John wakes to Sherlock muttering what sounds like numbers at random. He’s lying flat on his back with his hands pressed together against his mouth, staring at the ceiling. Chest rising and falling rhythmically. Light pollution seeps through the curtains of Sherlock’s bedroom window, a blush of oranges and reds and yellows enliven the pale expanse of his torso. He’s unashamedly naked, one leg dangling off the side of his bed and the other lost under the covers. 

It makes John’s skin ache, he’s so beautiful. 

“What are you thinking?” 

Sherlock breathes in and he breathes out. “Lestrade is going to phone me about a case within the hour.” 

“At this time of night? It had better be a case.” 

Sherlock lobs him a funny look. John loves the crease between his eyebrows when he’s confused.  

“Sherlock,” John tries his hand at an imitation of Greg, albeit a sleepy Greg. “Fancy divulging this week’s lottery numbers? Thanks, mate.” 

“ _Divulging_ , John?” 

They gravitate toward one another like they’re following a script. Written and revamped beyond comperhension, memorized to the letter. Their legs tangle, skin on skin. John breathes in and Sherlock breathes out. 

“Lapis lazuli,” Sherlock hums on John’s forehead. 

John can’t decide if lapis lazuli is case-related or something Sherlock thinks Lestrade would phone them about at half three in the morning, off the record. 

Sherlock can read John’s unspoken question in the flutter of his eyelids. “It will suit you. Bring out the color of your eyes.” 

“Suit me for what?” John asks softly. 

Sherlock braces himself against the mattress, pushing himself over and on top of and looking down at John. He’s smiling that predatory smile John associates with serial killers or that one time Molly text Sherlock about a body in the morgue. Situs inversus. Sherlock’s jealousy, coveting the inversion of internal organs because then their hearts would beat against one another, wouldn’t they? Lying like this? 

The air is suddenly different. Sherlock is electric. Magnetic. Charged particles like an aura, blanketing John’s person with heart-racing, adrenaline-stimulating euphoria. John loves him, he loves him, he loves him. And Sherlock loves him back. Whatever Sherlock has in mind, John is up to the challenge. After last night, after everything. John sighs, his hands on Sherlock’s waist, and they fit together like skeletal bones. Ball and socket, hinge, pivot. Sherlock breathes in, John breathes out. So good. It’s so good and _God yes_. John respires this love, this man, this moment. 

Sherlock says, “Marry me,” like he would say _Save me_. “I want you. Marry me.” 

“You have me,” John assures him. 

“I want you more.” 

There is nothing wrong with more. 


	62. Mannequin

Sherlock is eating a tub of vanilla ice cream. Manny the mannequin is lying facedown in the living room floor, a horde of kitchen knives embedded in his arse. One of these things does not belong. 

“I didn’t know you like vanilla ice cream,” John says. 

Sherlock collects a spoonful. The ice cream is in a state Harry used to call _Period Perfection_. (The designation still gives John the willies, and he’s a doctor!) Not too cold, hard and lumpy. Not too warm, soft and runny. Just right. Retaining most of its velvety integrity. Glistening and sumptuous and Sherlock takes the spoon into his mouth, all the way to its transition. Turns the bowl over against his tongue and rakes it clean with his lips. “I have no strong feelings for vanilla ice cream one way or the other.” 

“Then why?” 

“Because I can,” Sherlock says, twirling his spoon for emphasis. 

“Did you kill Manny again because you can or because multiple stab wounds to the bum is case-related?” 

“Bored.” 

“Right.” John’s worst nightmare. “Okay.” Time to baby-proof the light sockets. 


	63. Beeswax

“And the beeswax is for…?” 

“Lips,” Sherlock answers. He sits primly on the sofa, swathed in a hodgepodge of mismatched blankets. He juts his chin a little, implying John should _hurry up, hurry up, hurry up._

“You’re the expert.” John brings a waxy paintbrush to Sherlock’s mouth. “Why aren’t you perfecting this disguise yourself?” 

“Need a thief to catch a thief. Need a doctor to fool a doctor.” Sherlock puckers his lips to better assist John’s meticulous application. John has never given much thought to the amount of detail Sherlock devotes to his disguises. It’s so simple, on the outside looking in. A change of clothes. A bit of product in his hair. But it isn’t just the outfit or the makeup. It’s the way Sherlock carries himself, the way he speaks. John firmly believes that if Sherlock weren’t the world’s only consulting detective, he would be an actor. “Culverton Smith killed his nephew. I know he did. He _will_ confess.” Sherlock’s eyes are hard and his voice is altogether arctic. 

He broods while John uses the last of the beeswax around his chin. “Listen…I…” John fights a smile. “Thank you. For letting me in on this one.” 

“You made it painfully clear I was to never fake my death, under any circumstances, ever again.” Sherlock doesn’t fight his smile so much as suspend it. He’ll smile at John later. When he doesn’t feel so sticky. John will smile back because he’s John and he can’t help himself. “I learn from my mistakes.” 

“Shocker.” John smears a glob of petroleum jelly across Sherlock’s forehead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been very busy with work and I'm sorry the last two chapters have been kind of short. I'll write you a surprise tomorrow.


	64. Circumlocution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how sorry I am. I had to work the weekend and it's not even the busy season yet! I tried to finish the surprise chapter, but it will have to wait. It's getting too long and I can't keep stalling. *hurtles into the sun*

Sherlock has been lost inside his head for several hours. 

Well. Not lost, John hopes. But definitely itinerant. It’s half one in the morning and Sherlock is staring at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. E-mails printed and taped to the mantelpiece. His eyes dart from one to another intermittently, hands pressed against his mouth. Otherwise, he doesn’t move. He hasn’t moved in so long, John begins to worry. Sherlock needs to move, if nothing else. Not because standing in one place is bad for him, necessarily, but because it is. 

John plays music. He discovered that while Sherlock’s mind is hazardously occupied thinking on a level that would incapacitate mere mortals, his body—declining to respond to stimuli like touch or smell—is vulnerable to instrumental sound. It isn’t much, granted, but it’s something. John composed a CD of orchestral pieces, mostly strings. He stashes copies in his bedside table for just such an occasion. 

Sherlock sways where he stands. Rocking from side to side, feet shuffling against the rug. His eyes are still trained on the e-mails. He doesn’t say a word. The flat is dark. Sherlock’s only light source originates outside. Curtains drawn wide and the city pours into their living room, flashing and pulsing like a living, breathing thing. Sherlock exhales, a silhouette in the dark, framed in gold. He closes his eyes; he doesn’t need to see the evidence anymore. Hasn’t had to since the first time he read them. He tilts his head back and he continues to sway. 

John approaches Sherlock from behind, somber and more than a little concerned. Sherlock submits to his brain on a regular basis. It probably shouldn’t bother him. Only it does. John wonders, some days, if Sherlock will visit his mind palace and never come back. He touches Sherlock’s arm, but doesn’t expect Sherlock to acknowledge him. Honestly surprises John when Sherlock turns, seeking him out like a flower bending toward sunlight. John rests his hand on Sherlock’s waist. Sways with him, hums a little under his breath.

“John,” Sherlock whispers. John wonders to hear him speak at all. “What are we doing?” 

“I may be wrong, but I think we’re moving rhythmically to music.” 

Sherlock is silent. The music is sweet. The movement of their bodies even sweeter. Barely. Going nowhere. John doesn’t mind. And neither, apparently, does Sherlock. He trails his fingers up, down John’s jumper. Feels him there with him. Always with him. Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s. They rock in tandem, breathe in tandem. “What are we doing, John?” Sherlock asks again. 

John isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks it’s exactly what they’re supposed to be doing. 


	65. Pizza

Sherlock prods at the pizza on the kitchen table. Or what’s supposed to be a pizza. John’s not a betting man, but he wages their lunch is now considered a weapon of mass destruction. 

Sherlock is wearing his safety goggles. John stands aside on the off chance the giant lump of molten bread and cheese combusts because he can hear it hissing and popping unnaturally and he’s taking no chances. It might worry John that Sherlock isn’t too perturbed. It might worry him that Sherlock looks more intrigued than apologetic. ( _Though, honestly? Sherlock is hardly ever apologetic_.) 

“That’s what I call a Death Frisbee.” 

Sherlock cracks a grin. His eyes sparkle fetchingly. “Want to see what happens when we drop it from your bedroom window?” 

Two things. One, Sherlock is vivacious and smiling so John has a snowball’s chance in hell of denying him. Two, Sherlock said _we_. John’s heart is made of sterner stuff, but it goos just a little bit. “Yes,” is his answer, a touch breathless. And it dawns on him. He’s agreeing to more than experimenting with a galvanized pizza for shits and giggles. He’s agreeing to everything, to all of it. He’s accepting Sherlock’s proposal a week after the fact. 

Sherlock and John celebrate by making a mess of the pavement. 


	66. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer’s block can go jump off the roof of Saint Bart’s. 
> 
> Too soon?
> 
> On a happier note, your surprise is almost finished!

Sherlock doesn’t do anything to warrant a hug from John. Effervescent concoctions brewing, Bunsen burners hissing. Sherlock pushes his safety goggles up against his sweaty forehead. His hair is sticking out every which way and he’s just…perfect. A royal pain in the arse, but John’s pain in the arse. Mycroft was right when he imagined Sherlock was hellish to live with. It’s worse without him, though. Worse than hell. 

It’s boring. 

An onslaught of affection washes over John and his goose bumps have goose bumps. He throws his arms around Sherlock. Holds him tight. Touched when Sherlock gladly returns his embrace. No hesitance, doesn’t stammer whatever it is he’s saying. His body reacts automatically, drawing John closer, second nature. While he talks, he continues mixing hazardous chemicals behind John’s back like John isn’t an impediment. Like John’s an extension of himself. 

John listens to Sherlock ramble about nothing and everything. Revels in the vibration of his voice against his chest. A small part of him doesn’t want to move ever again. He knows, logically, that would be impossible, but feelings are feelings and they never do make much sense, do they? In this moment, John is contented. He feels warm. He even feels safe, which is a surprise given Sherlock’s penchant for blowing things up or setting fire to the flat. 

John trusts him, though. That’s what it all boils down to. 


	67. Cross-stitch

John remembers the first time he held a needle and thread. His mother learned how to cross-stitch from his grandmother, who made a living as a seamstress. Maybe needlework is in his blood, he has no idea, but it is no coincidence that he can stitch a wound with startling proficiency. 

Harry never cared for cross-stitching. A fear of needles and poor hand-eye coordination did not a good combination make. (The third time she pricked her finger, she threw in the towel.) When a combination of poor vision and early onset arthritis made it difficult for his mother to thread her needles, John swallowed what little pride he had at the age of fifteen—because needles and thread seemed to him very girly—and he threaded them for her. 

It wasn’t long before he was cross-stitching himself. There was something hypnotic about it. Something soothing about the tug and the pull and the scratching sound of thread and fabric. He did not cross-stitch often and he never completed a template in his life, but the satisfaction of binding one something to another something never dissipated. When he decided he wanted to be a doctor, then an army surgeon, the same sense of fulfillment kept his hands steady as he sewed his friends back together. 

His hand isn’t shaking now. 

Sherlock watches John like a hawk. He’s sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink, trouserless, and John is darning his shin. Sherlock’s hands are steepled, aligning perfectly with the androgynous shape of his lips and the subtle curve of his philtrum. He winces when John’s needle pierces his skin, but he does not whimper or cry or hiss in pain. He’s far too distracted by the orchestra of healing and life conducted by dancing phalanges he knows inside and out. It’s mesmerizing. 

John wraps Sherlock’s leg in gauze, surgeon hands siding up to his knees as he stands. Sherlock follows him with his eyes silently.

“I know you’re hell bent on dying first ‘n all,” John says. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying so hard, yeah?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something snarky. Changes his mind at the last second and replies, “If my doctor commands.” 

John leans forward. Kisses him sweetly, touching Sherlock’s thighs, his waist. He’s spent his life dreaming of mending, studying to mend, and mending the wounded in the heat of battle. He never thought he would need mending himself. Mending in a way he couldn’t understand. Didn’t realize he’d been cut down the middle, living through the motions after Afghanistan. Not until Sherlock’s unique brand of madness stitched him back together again.


	68. Derogatory

Sherlock is good at ignoring hateful remarks. Slanderous accusations, the term _freak_ overused and unimaginative. He listens, but he does not absorb. Not entirely. His thoughts are separate and distinct from the vitriol spewing from the mouths of those whose sense of self worth is next to nothing, his mind the brine to their oily constitutions. 

It wasn’t always easy. Painful, brutal, insults like branding irons. Never truly healing, not really. He probably shouldn’t take comfort in the fact that not a single person alive goes unscathed, but he does. He’s not the only one with battle scars. 

He sniffs at the dead body’s neck. A faint odor of perfume. What is it?

“Freak.” 

Doesn’t matter who said it. Or why they said it. He acknowledges their derision and the moniker, in its feeble attempts to break skin, merely dissipates in the frigid air. Sherlock closes his eyes. Sniffs again. Oceanic fragrance. _L’Eau par Kenzo_? He registers another comment, but the tips of his ears burn in righteous fury even before he’s cognizant of the recipient of their ignorance. 

“There must be something wrong with him, tagging along after Sherlock Holmes like a love-sick puppy.” 

This, Sherlock cannot deflect. It’s a first for him. Overhearing bullshit directed not at himself, but at John. Someone he cares for so deeply it physically pains Sherlock to devote even a fraction of his mental capacity dissecting how John responded when he told him to stay. 

Sherlock stands. Pulls off his latex gloves with a satisfying snap before he rounds on the scum of the earth. “Your ridiculous little opinion has been noted,” Sherlock hisses between his teeth. His anger is roiling inside his chest, climbing higher and higher into his throat. Sherlock wonders if he might shake apart from the force of it. He endeavors to tear the creation a new one, but a syllable from John, a touch from John, and Sherlock holds his tongue. 

For a second. 


	69. Derogatory II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sort of try-again for Derogatory. Enjoy!

Words are powerful. Inflection can make or break a case. Timing, cadence, body language, micro expressions, accents belie more than people realize. Words like a vapor tumbling from their mouths, visible if only to Sherlock. A map he can follow to determine where they live, how they live, and whom they live with. Typically. It’s not a perfect science, but a useful one. 

Sherlock grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes. He bows his head, allowing the torrent of water to beat against the back of his skull. He’s spent an inordinate amount of time trying to delete certain words he heard that afternoon. Words, lies, same difference. Lies like candy stuck in Mycroft’s teeth. 

Sherlock grunts. Braces himself against the wall of the shower. Inhales the scent of his shampoo. He’s overreacting. Stop. Listen. Breathe. He can hear John in the kitchen. Cooking dinner? Or demolishing his chemistry set, one. But John wouldn’t do that. No, John is the antithesis of the opinions of people who don’t matter in this equation. And John’s words… 

Sherlock rakes his fingers through his hair, tangle in his soppy curls. John’s words bandage the evidence of insults past. Enfold him, a second skin, and it’s John’s assertions how he’s fantastic, brilliant, and marvelous that support Sherlock as he shrugs off the _freak_ s or the  _we all hated him_ s. Sherlock doesn’t need John’s edification to withstand a blitz of slurs. He survived on his own, mending his self-esteem long before John Watson invaded his life. 

Invaded. How appropriate. 

When John says, “I love you.” 

Sherlock gasps. Tilts his head back, emotion stirring low in his stomach. 

I love you is being struck by lightning. 

The bathroom door opens. John draws the shower curtain. 

Sherlock frowns at him. “Do you mind?” 

“You’ve been in here over an hour.” 

“Your point being?” 

“You’ve used all the hot water and you’re pruning.” 

There’s an eighty-five percent chance that what John really means is, _“I’m worried about you.”_ Lots of things John says translate into, _“I’m worried about you._ ” 

John shuts off the water and pulls Sherlock out of the shower. Sherlock considers going boneless just to irritate him, but he’s naked and wet and quite cold, actually. (So perhaps another time.) John forces him to sit on the toilet. Produces a towel to protect Sherlock’s modesty. Produces another to dry his hair. John resolutely scrubs Sherlock’s scalp, massaging his head with his fingers and it shouldn’t feel this good. But it does. Easier to forget all the words worth forgetting. Sherlock leans into his touch. 

John chuckles. “Wanker.” 

It’s said affectionately. Warm, reliable, much like John himself. 

Sherlock shakes him off. Pulls John down against him. Kisses his lips. Where his words originate. Every tooth, the palate of his mouth, his tongue. John whispers Sherlock’s name. It tastes like honey. 


	70. Nouveau-riche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brandy, are you reading this?

To say John is surprised to find Sherlock deep in conversation with a strange man is an understatement. He stares at the two of them standing around the fireplace, Sherlock smiling openly and honestly and when did he step through the Looking Glass? 

John puts away the groceries, uncertain if he should break the spell of camaraderie by announcing his presence or wait to be acknowledged. Under normal circumstances, he would introduce himself because he doesn’t pussyfoot around Sherlock’s clients. Never has. But John can’t determine if the man (Well dressed. Jewelry, a ring on his finger that would break John three times over. A toff. New money, judging by the disproportion between Sherlock’s suave demeanor and his flamboyant conduct— _oh God, he’s got me doing it_.) is a client or a friend.   

“This must be Dr. Watson!” New Money exclaims. Snifter of brandy in hand, he introduces himself as, “Victor Trevor, at your service.” with a smile that could terrify bloodthirsty sharks. “I’ve heard so much about you.” 

“Afraid I can’t say the same,” John is somewhat irked to admit. “How do you know Sherlock?” 

Sherlock and Victor catch each other’s eye and laugh with youthful abandon. John is not jealous. No, of course not. His stomach hurts because he has gas. Yes. Or he’s suddenly developed a case of Crohn’s disease in the last five minutes. 

“Victor was my first case, John,” Sherlock explains after he catches his breath. “Well, his father was my first case. Official case. No one took me seriously before. Carl Powers, you remember?” 

“How could I forget?” Despite John’s not-jealousy, he’s happy to see Sherlock happy. It’s not often Sherlock gets on with live ones. “Don’t tell me you owe him a favor, Mr. Trevor.” 

“Victor, please.” Victor drains his glass and sets it heavily on the kitchen table with an audible sigh. “He owes me, I think.” 

Sherlock scoffs. 

“I _told_ you, I said, _“You should do this for a living, Sherly!”_ and I meant it.” 

“Yes. I know. Thank you, Victor. Stop calling me Sherly.” 

Sherlock probably has no idea he inadvertently referenced _Airplane_. John would pay good money to watch Sherlock watch _Airplane_. _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ was pure magic. He coughs to hide his laughter. Sherlock mistakenly believes he’s poking fun; his nickname is ridiculous, to be sure, but at least it’s not Lock. 

“Speaking of favors…” Victor purrs. “Will you think about it?” 

Sherlock’s smile peters out. “I’ve thought about it. The answer’s no.” 

“You do owe me.” 

“I’ll run it by John,” Sherlock obviously lies, but Victor doesn’t seem to notice. 

He checks his genuine Patek Philippe, a wistful “Oh.” on point. “I hate to dash, but I have a meeting in twenty.” He hands John his card, winking. Dollars to donuts there’s more than one in their flat. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. Take care’ve ol’ Sherly, here. See to it he doesn’t leap off another building.” 

He’s out the door before John has it in him to reply. 

Sherlock releases a breath he might’ve been holding for the duration of Victor’s visit. “Thank God.” 

“I thought you were friends?” 

“In a sense.” Sherlock deposits Victor’s glass in the sink. “Victor is an opportunist. He’s friends with everyone.” 

John looks at Victor’s card. His printed name is as bold and lurid as he is in person. “Trevor Enterprises,” John reads. “What does he do, exactly?” 

“Investments. Bartering. You name it, Victor’s fingerprints are probably all over it.” Sherlock pries the card from John’s fingers and flicks it in the bin. “You won’t be contacting him,” he says, making a beeline for the sofa. True to form, he sprawls with the grace of a swan/ballerina hybrid and toes off his shoes. 

John nudges his Leeds under the coffee table. “You were going to run something by me?” 

Sherlock drums his fingers against his chest. “Victor wants to sponsor us.”

 _Us. Not me. Us._  

“What? Really? Why?” 

“Opportunist,” Sherlock reminds him, frowning. Gestures to John’s chair fussily and then drapes his arm across his face. 

It’s a deerstalker. A large TE stitched on the flaps. 

John can’t help it. “ _Surely_ , you must be joking.” 

“Oh, God,” Sherlock groans. “Not you, too!” 

John grabs his laptop. Prods at Sherlock’s legs until he makes room for John to sit down. “C’mon. We’re watching a movie.” 


	71. Insuperable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late, but not too late!

“The problem is kids believe themselves to be invincible.” Sherlock doesn’t even have to look at John before he tells him, “Gaping is terribly unattractive, you know.” There’s a sparkle in his eye as he weaves in and out of the Rube Goldberg obstacle course constructed by three teenage boys with the collective intelligence of a fruit fly. Two of whom are huddled on the curb, shock blankets galore. Blubbering their heads off. Incidentally, the third member of their trio died doing what he loved. I.e., being a moron. 

One tampered apparatus of death. A dash of misfortune. Voilà! Sherlock’s siren song. 

John closes his mouth. Follows after him, grinning broadly. “Just kids?” 

“Teenagers,” Sherlock adds, brushing his gloved fingers over the medley of automobile skeletons soldered and riveted together in the name of fun. He ducks under a gnarled tailpipe. “Misguided youth.” 

“You.” 

Sherlock resents John’s remark. Very much. John knows so because Sherlock impales him with the same, cold glare he retains for occasions when John insults his website. “I know my limits very well, thanks.” 

“No, you don’t.” John clasps his hands behind his back. Rocking on the balls of his feet. He’s really enjoying their toing and froing because he’s right, dammit. Leans forward, meeting Sherlock’s contentious expression through the busted window of a 1988 Honda Civic. “This looks like something you would do.” A mental image of Sherlock participating in the programme _Wipeout_ nearly propels John into the metaphorical stratosphere of amusement. “In fact, you’ve done worse.” 

Sherlock is hiding a smile. John can see it. Tucked in the left-hand corner of his mouth. “When?” He knows bloody well when, but John indulges him anyway. 

“How about last week? When you thought it was a good idea to light the Devil’s Foot Root on fire?” 

“Radix pedis diaboli.” Sherlock’s smile has slipped its restraints. John can’t stop staring. “And I didn’t light it on fire,” Sherlock says, sotto voce. “I baked it in the oven.” 

John lowers his voice, too, conspiratorially. “Which caught on fire.” 

Huskier. “Which I put out.” 

Whispering. “With my jumper.” 

Over John’s lips. “Easier to clean than sodium bicarbonate.” 

Gripping Sherlock’s lapel. “You nearly died.” 

Eyes closing. “Nearly being the key word.” 

“Oi!” Dimmock throws a joint boot at them. “No flirting at crime scenes! You promised!” 


	72. Valentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I've been sick. I couldn't NOT write something for Valentine's Day, though. Forgive me for the randomness and the not-traditionally-romanticness of this chapter. I'm going back to bed. 9-6

Sherlock is saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal. A flash of gunpowder and smoke. Drawing breath into his lungs, strong and uncompromising and _living_. John wants to kiss his mouth, flint and tinder. But he doesn’t. Not yet. Because Sherlock is looking at him in a way that reminds John of their trip to the Louvre after hours. (Galleries still refer to Sherlock as the Reichenbach Hero. Insane lengths to ensure his political patronage of the arts continues unabated. John remembers standing in the presence of some of the most famous paintings in the world. Sherlock’s hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t touch.) 

John is the _Mona Lisa_ , _Liberty Leading the People_ , _The Coronation of Napoleon_. 

Sherlock’s fascination with art is not a pursuit in aesthetics, as some would believe. A matter of forgery and theft. _How can this be stolen? How can this be replicated?_ Sherlock is looking at John in much the same way, minus the underlying purr of satisfaction when he successfully concocts a feasible plan of action one way or another. Since John can’t be replaced—Sherlock will not be fooled by an imitation of John Watson, obviously—Sherlock entertains scenarios leading to either John’s abduction or his… 

“I’m not going anywhere,” John says, a touch cross. For being such a genius, Sherlock can be incredibly stupid. “Even if I were, I’m taking you with me.” 

Relief like the night sky. Sherlock burns all the brighter for it. 


	73. Stockholm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see how long I can go without missing a day. ;)

John unfolds the instructions “so simple a child could do it”, according to Sherlock. He turns them upside-down. Right-side up. Garners full use of his _I-am-disappointed_ frown. “So we’ve got…” Prods at the plastic (might as well call them) pustules. Filled with more screws than he can shake a stick at. “Big ones. Small ones. Medium sized ones. Bigger ones. Washers. These…squiggly bits.” 

 _“Squiggly bits.”_ Sherlock is amused. John is irritated. 

“If you’re not going to help, you don’t get to criticise my methods.” 

“Your _methods_.” Sherlock sits on the sofa, his chin cradled atop his thumbs and his mouth hidden behind his intertwined fingers. “Pray tell.” 

John shakes the handle of his 10-in-1 at him. “I went to college. I’ve assembled my fair share of cheap-arse furniture, thank you very much.” He also dated a number of women who purchased entertainment centers in the infancy of their romantic liaisons. Forcing slot A into remotely-resembles-a-conical-outlet B is almost a prerequisite for any relationship. Even this one. Though, Sherlock is capable of building a bloody table. He’s smart. Efficient when he wants to be. Good with his hands. (John is _not_ blushing. He is _not blushing_.) But he’s lazy. And he enjoys watching John do things. The oddest things, really. Peel apples, the plumbing. Anything but type entries for his blog, which Sherlock rudely proposes is a sign of devolution. 

John sets the pamphlet on the floor. He’s not sure where to start because the directions are in Chinese. “Remind me why you dribbled acid on our old table?” 

“For science,” they say at the same time. They’re both taking the piss, but they smile in tandem. 

Sherlock watches John use his 10-in-1 as a hammer. His face “goes all soft”, according to John, and a surge of affection catches him unawares. “John,” he starts. “Would you stay if I—“ Tries again, reduced to stammering by the raw honesty in John’s eyes. “What if I couldn’t—“ Frustrated, knuckles turning white, grip intensifying. “If I couldn’t give you what you need. What you want. Would you stay?” 

John doesn’t say anything. Taking too long to think. Makes Sherlock antsy. 

“I’m afraid I would keep you anyway,” Sherlock blurts. He’s surprised to hear himself divulge this heretofore heavily guarded secret. A bit not good. Admitting he would hold John hostage against his will. Because he would. Or not. Probably not. But he’d try. For a while. Maybe. Sherlock swallows his uncertainty. It tastes like mercury. Vexed and impatient, he snaps, “Say something.” 

John touches Sherlock’s hands. Eases them apart. Fingernails leaving crescent moons on his skin. “You would keep me?” 

Sherlock nods. Can’t bring himself to explain how. 

“Ever heard of Stockholm syndrome?” 

Sherlock huffs. Closes his eyes because _stupid, stupid!_ John kisses the corner of his mouth and Sherlock breathes him in. Doesn’t kiss him back, just breathes. Parting his lips. A taste. A little taste. An electrical shock. Ventricular fibrillation. Isn’t used to the cloying need of reassurance. Steals his breath even as John restores it. “I would let you go,” Sherlock admits, chest heaving. Doesn’t realize he’s told the truth until after he speaks the words on John’s tongue. Genuine surprise, a gasp of regret. Or delight. He’s not sure. Why would he do that? Why would he let John go if John wanted to leave? 

“Lima syndrome,” John whispers. Or thinks. They’re so close now Sherlock can scarcely tell the difference. 

 _This can’t be happening to me,_ Sherlock replies as John resuscitates a part of him he didn’t know he had. 


	74. Omnipresent

John slides inside the black Sedan that’s been tailing him for the last three blocks. He’s prepared to undergo a rigorous Q and A and he wouldn’t be all that surprised if “Anthea” has been commissioned to obtain a sample of his urine, his blood, his hair follicles… 

John bristles as he sits beside Mycroft, not his sexy secretary. 

“This is new,” John muses. “No abandoned warehouses available for a clandestine meeting?” 

Mycroft smiles tightly. “You know why I’m here.” 

“If this is about Sherlock—“ 

“I’m _concerned_.” Mycroft speaks the adjective like it’s personally offended him. Considering the reason why he’s so uneasy, John can hardly blame him. Still. 

“Your _concern_ ,” John punctuates the word of the day with a heaping helping of soldiery bite, “isn’t necessary. If this is some kind of, of _intimidation routine_ —“ 

“Hardly routine.” 

“Is this the part where you tell me if I break his heart, you’ll break me?” 

Mycroft quirks his eyebrows. Folds his hands neatly in his lap. “John,” he admonishes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know me better than that.” A beat of strategic silence. “I won’t just break you. I will eviscerate you.” 

John is grinding his teeth. Mycroft is probably sucking on a toffee. 

“Right.” John clears his throat. Raps his knuckles on the paneled window separating Mycroft and himself from the nameless/faceless chauffer. He climbs out of the car when it rolls to a stop, but before he slams the door in Mycroft’s face, he impresses upon him, “I love your brother. And I don’t give a damn if you approve or not because this…” He’s growling now. “… _this_ has nothing to do with you.” 

John storms off in a huff. He is not party to the text Mycroft sends Sherlock: _Congratulations_. 


	75. Incorporeal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time!

Sherlock subscribes to a degree—a _small_ degree—of religious twaddle because John Watson cannot be labeled, classified, or categorized by science alone. This annoys Sherlock as much as it titillates him; he’s ceased resisting the paradoxical elements that compose John’s essence, his _je ne sais quoi_. Heaven or hell, Sherlock honestly doesn’t care. The question of God does not appeal to him simply because there isn’t enough data and there never will be enough data. Holy wars and hate crimes are intriguing in and of themselves, but teenagers precede religion as a whole on his list of _Fucks to Give_ , which is saying something. 

John, however. Sherlock believes the man has a soul. He can feel it. Like the vastness of the snowfall outside 221B. Immeasurable. John is so much bigger, so much greater than the melanin of his hair, the marrow of his bones. His eyes are the ocean, his skin is the desert. Sherlock could fall into him and never find his way out. Sometimes, he thinks he already has. 

John’s soul is old. Not very old, but older than Sherlock would imagine. A century. Worn around the edges like a book yellowed by the sun and its pages smell of ink and leather and adventure. 

Sherlock has a soul. He must have because there are times he catches John’s eye and the bottom of his world plummets and disappears and his horizons expand in a flood of color and light and violin concerto in D major Op. 61. Sherlock holds John’s gaze. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t mind John can see through him, inside him, where his demons hide. For the first time in his life, he believes in himself because John believed in him first. 

John stretches. He’s been typing on his laptop for the better part of an hour. Three paragraphs completed. Sherlock’s stomach twists in helpless adoration and amusement. John flexes his fingers. Pops his knuckles one at a time. Sherlock doesn’t know why. He only uses two. 

John notices Sherlock noticing him and Sherlock notices his notice with a brief smile. This entices John to rise, eyeing Sherlock’s maiden-in-waiting (Sherlock still hasn’t forgiven John for that one.) pose with his own brand of helpless adoration and amusement. Sherlock would give anything to plaster-cast John’s face as it is now. He makes a note to test the metaphorical waters for artistic excursions, heart thumping wildly in his chest when John bends over him, invading his personal space. Offering himself for Sherlock’s immediate study. 

Sherlock still hasn’t figured out how John reads his mind. His deduction skills are piss-poor at best. 

Sherlock touches John’s nose. Spreads his fingers across his cheeks, pulling at his skin, noting the elasticity. John is a third tolerant, a third befuddled, and a third flattered. When Sherlock maps the logarithmic curve of his bottom lip, he’s a fourth aroused. Kisses the pad of Sherlock’s thumb sweetly. 

Sherlock’s soul soars to astronomical heights.  


	76. Chevalier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. In my defense, this one is longer than normal. And more plotty.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock boggles at John over the morning paper. Well, not boggle. Sherlock hardly boggles. He will admit his eyes widen at John’s proposal. Mouth falls open for the briefest of moments. Not exactly gaping. But close enough. 

“Me, you,” John clarifies. “Date. Friday.” 

Gobsmacked? Yes. That’s what he is. Gobsmacked. Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond. John is a friend. He enjoys going out with John. Having fun with John is never boring. So why can’t he draw the necessary oxygen into his lungs in order to answer _yes, yes, yes?_ Because. Reasons. They exist. Inconsequential reasons like: _We don’t date_. A pathetic argument, really. While it’s true they do not, in fact, date, their romantic relationship (Sherlock mentally recoils at the term.) is subject to change. Just like everything else on the face of the Earth. Logic eases Sherlock’s mind, but not his respiratory system. So he nods. 

“Good.” John actually blushes. “Be ready at six.”  

 _Shit._  

 

 

Sherlock is not good at dating. Or dates. He finds them boring. Predictable. Tedious. Sherlock wouldn’t call himself a connoisseur, per se, but he’s disrupted enough of John’s half-arsed attempts to woo the fairer sex to have a good idea of what to expect. Dinner. A movie. Heinous. 

Sherlock buttons his aubergine shirt. Chest flushed, creeping up his neck. His body is betraying him and he hates it. Nerves. Why would he be nervous? There’s absolutely nothing to be nervous about. Unless the date goes poorly and John decides it’s in his best interest to get while the getting is good. 

Sherlock frowns at his mirror image. No. Not an option. He will be polite. He will be courteous. He will endeavor to pretend he’s having the time of his life. John’s worth it. 

Sherlock spends exactly ten minutes more than usual preening in his bedroom. He refuses to allow himself a second more even though his hair refuses to cooperate, damn it. At six on the dot, he meets John on the landing. He’s irrationally pissy, surges of adrenaline causing his insides to squirm, his heart to palpitate, his palms to sweat. John is dressed to the nines. ( _John’s version of the nines._ ) Best trousers, best shoes, best cologne. ( _Gift from Harry. Expensive. Rarely used. Wants to make an impression. For me._ ) 

 _For me_ rings in Sherlock’s ears. He wants to throw up. Wonders, abstractly, if he’ll vomit rainbows and butterflies.

 

 

John takes Sherlock to Angelo’s. Not exactly creative. Sherlock keeps his mouth firmly shut, teeth aching. Sits in his usual spot. Tries to suss John out. Not his style. John prefers lavishing his dates with expensive, three course meals he can’t afford. Piano music, candlelight, and the susurrus of intimate conversation somewhere in the dark. 

John smiles. “I know what you’re thinking.” 

“Do you?” 

“Boring.” 

“No!” Sherlock is quick to deny his mounting ennui. Too quick. “You’re doing…well. Really well. And.” _Don’t be pernicious, don’t be pernicious, don’t be pernicious._ “I’m…having a…great. Time.” 

John snorts. Good humor. Not insulted. “You’re terrible at this.” Sherlock is affronted before John concludes with, “I’m worse.” Licks his lips. “I’m not—I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits, exhaling his admission in confidence. “I’ve never done this before. And I feel stupid, but I want to pursue you. Not like this,” he flounders. “But. Um. Obviously. With murder. But not murder, of course. What I’m saying is, I…” John sighs. “…I like you. I fucking like you and I honestly can’t think straight, Sherlock, Jesus Christ.” 

Sherlock might be boggling now. “Pursue me?” 

“Yeah, you know. Bring you chocolates and flowers. In your case, toes and femurs.” 

Pursue suggesting to follow. To catch. Sherlock touches John’s hand. Sliding his fingers around his wrist. Surreptitiously taking his pulse. Elevated. 

It’s John’s turn to boggle. “Gun,” he whispers. 

 _What?_  

 _Gun,_ John mimes. Sherlock checks the reflection in the window. Table three, bald German with acute gingivitis. He either has a gun in his pocket or he’s very excited about his lasagna. John isn’t so much mouthing, _We have to do something!_ as he is pulling a face that speaks volumes and volumes of heroism and Sherlock stamps on his foot when the German reaches for his concealed weapon. ( _Murdering his wife on their anniversary. Classy._ ) 

“AHhhh-ahh!” John shouts. Stands. Successfully obtains everyone’s attention. Hesitates, but only momentarily. “ _Eee—I_ have an announcement. To make.” Picks up his wine glass. “First, I’d like to thank Angelo. A fine man. A damn, fine man.” 

Polite applause. Angelo is ruddy-faced and bashful as hell. 

“Second, I—“ Like he suddenly remembers Sherlock is there. “—my date tonight.” John takes a swig of his Pinot. “We’ve been through a lot of shit and you drive me ‘around the bend, but I. Um. Marry me.” 

Sherlock is stony-faced. 

More polite applause and ‘ _awww_ ’s from the women. 

Sherlock says, “No.” 

John struggles not to glance at table three. “Why?” 

A theatrical sigh. Downcast expression. A dash of humility and, “You’re married to your work.” 

“You’re an arsehole. That was six years ago.” 

Their audience has lost all interest in their food. An out-and-out soap opera is unfolding before their eyes. 

“Three of which you spent traveling the world so you could _find yourself_.” 

“Yeah!” John snaps. Not acting anymore. “And I found that I love you, so there!” 

Sherlock simulates distress, leaving the table. Head bowed, feints left, tackling the German out of his chair before he can put a bullet through his wife’s head.

 

 

 

John dabs at Sherlock’s eyebrow with a cotton swab. Sherlock flinches at the sting. 

“What a punch.” 

“I can see why he wanted to kill her,” Sherlock mutters. “She has a mean right hook. Best. Date. Ever.” 

John pauses for thought. “Yes, I think so.” Sweeps the trash in the bin beside the loo. “Only one thing can make it better.”  

“What’s that?” 

John tugs on the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock stoops, eyes closing. Fully expects John to kiss him. Predictable. Cliché. Romantic. 

“We’re out of milk,” John whispers in his ear. 

Sherlock opens his eyes. Evaluates John’s cheeky grin, the smudges of blood on his shoulder where he cradled Sherlock’s head while the German’s wife railed him for making a spectacle of her and he kisses him. Because no one surprises Sherlock Holmes like John Watson. Closer, the inside of John’s mouth velvety and warm. Breathe. Slow. Quick, quick. Slow. Like dancing. John’s hands cup Sherlock’s face. Slower. More breathing, less kissing. Just John’s lips on his lips and _it fits,_ Sherlock thinks. _This fits._


	77. Unmoored

Sherlock makes love like no one John has ever known. Most people associate intimacy with sex or the physical aspects of a romantic relationship. Sherlock associates intimacy with an intense familiarity that goes beyond a memorization of facts, committing to memory thoughts and feelings and honest to God pablum. 

For the longest time, John doesn’t perceive the implications. Why would Sherlock resort to filling his head with nonsense like how John’s left ankle makes a grinding noise when he flexes his toes, how John received a pellet gun for his twelfth birthday, how Harry’s pet hamster died and John buried Pete in the backyard with the neighbor’s grilling utensils? Then it hits him like...something hitting something really hard. (John has _got_ to work on his similies.) Sherlock constantly moans and groans about his hard drive. Finite space for an infinite subject matter. He can’t just _File, Save_ everything. Not enough room. Not enough incentive to remember the Earth goes around the Sun. 

But he remembers John’s favorite color is green. 

Sherlock wakes John in the middle of the night. He’s working. Still wearing his trousers and his button down. Bleary-eyed, but alert for trouble, John rolls over on his back to ask, “Whas’it?” 

“What is your B.M.I.?” 

John hates to tell him, “I don’ know.” Because if questions are a sign of affection, John’s answers need to deliver. Clears his throat. Heart skipping one beat. Two. “I’ll find out.” 

Pianist fingers calculating the exponential curvature of his elbow. Sherlock closes his eyes, thinking. “What is your first memory?” His voice is so soft, so private, John’s breath hitches. 

“Gladstone. I was three years old. Almost four. He bit me. A woman came to take him away. I remember standing at the front door, crying. I didn’t want him to go.” 

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmurs. As crazy as it sounds, being called interesting by Sherlock Homes is equally as satisfying as sex. 

John makes love to Sherlock in his own way, too. 

The next morning, John finds Sherlock asleep under the covers wearing nothing but his pants. At some point during the night, John assumes he solved whatever it was that needed solving and—dispossessing himself of sleep for three days straight—assented to crash in John’s room, forsaking his pajamas en lieu of shucking his very expensive clothing at the foot of John’s bed. They sleep together every once in a while. Amorous activities, no cases to solve, but the sight of Sherlock’s messy head of hair resting on John’s pillow is still a novelty. 

John looms, bracing his arms on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders. He hasn’t fallen asleep yet. Or he stirred awake when John regained consciousness. John wouldn’t have bothered saying “Hi.” otherwise. 

Sherlock opens his eyes long enough to roll them. A smile budding on his mouth. John kisses it into full bloom. 

“So?” he prompts. 

“It was the estranged wife. In the study. With a letter opener. ‘Professor, it was she.’ Obvious.” 

John brushes his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “You’re amazing,” he tells him. 

Sherlock undulates beneath him. Long legs stretching, toes catching the sheet and the covers slide off of John’s shoulders. Sherlock basks in the praise like a cat basks in the sun. “Yes,” he sighs. Acknowledging his own genius as well as inviting John to _tell me more, tell me more. Again._  

“You’re fantastic.” 

Sherlock clutches John’s shirt in his hands. “Oh?” Strives for nonchalance. Misses by a mile. Breathless. Beguiled. 

“Brilliant. Spectacular. Miraculous. Incredible. Amazing.” 

“Mmm. You said amazing already.” 

“Well, you’re doubly amazing.” John drags his nose through Sherlock’s hair, across his forehead. Plants a kiss on the bridge of his nose. Then down, down, returning to Sherlock’s lips and they welcome him back with languid enthusiasm. “God, your mouth,” John continues to lavish Sherlock with compliments. “Your eyes,” he says, pulling back far enough to look into them. “You’re beautiful.” 

Sherlock’s brow is pinched, as close to dumbstruck as is possible in his case. Cheeks flushed prettily. It wrenches John’s heart, his wonder. His disbelief. He wants to flatter Sherlock over and over until praise no longer renders him speechless. Renders him indolent, boneless, gasping under his hands, his tongue. Unmoored. 

He doesn’t care how long it takes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I should take this time to inform you all that for the next three months, I will be neck deep in work. I have a job in the formalwear industry and Prom and Wedding season is about as intense as Black Friday, but for weeks at a time. So be patient with me if I fail to update quickly. As a side note, if anyone reading this fic is getting married and/or going to prom this season, I ask that you please treat your formalwear provider with kindness and respect. I don't work in retail, but I know the stress must be out of this world. Thank you!


	78. Sombrero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapter notes disrupt the flow of the story, but I want you all to know I'm trying very hard to update daily. Don't give up on me!

Sherlock’s compulsion to decorate the flat with skulls does not bother John. Decorating the skulls with unsystematic accessories, however, bothers him quite a lot. Not because he thinks it’s stupid, but because it’s really really cool. 

 _Honestly,_ John ponders. _Where does he get these ideas?_   _Is Sherlock trying to be weird on purpose?_ Not weird in a bad way, weird in an  _intangible_ way. Like when John was dating the one with the spots; he used to watch (Or sit through, tomato-tomata.) a television programme that catered to ‘the artistic nuances of vogue-oriented fashionistas’. (So primarily women. But John isn’t sexist.) The contestants created the most insane, the most innovative dresses and coats and real people don’t think like that. 

John asks Sherlock about his décor of choice. Sherlock responds with, “There’s a saying _. Be faithful to your own taste because nothing you really like is ever out of style._ ” He implicitly eyes John’s jumper as if to say, _Wrong._  

Ohhh, the game is on. 

John is determined to be creative and, and! Visceral! Or something. He reads up on the subject. Nonsense such as, _Dry, but slightly damp._ or _Innocent, but sexy._ Which don’t make a lick of sense. Integral to aesthetics as a field of study, apparently. Stupid television programme he can’t name. Stupid Sherlock and his creative headphones. John can be spontaneous, too. He can be intuitive. He can be in touch with his inner interior designer. 

He buys a sombrero. 

He immediately hates himself. 

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

Sherlock watches John plop the sombrero on top of the cow skull. “What are you doing?” 

“Decorating.” Situates the hat to the liking. “Ole.” 

“That’s a sombrero. Why a sombrero?” 

“Why the headphones?” 

Sherlock sniffs. “Because it looks good that way.” 

“I think it looks good this way.” 

He doesn’t.

The sombrero is not to be touched under penalty of disorganizing Sherlock’s sock index.

This leads to a full-scale war of artistic vision. In a matter of weeks, added to the flat are as follows: A plasticized, human cadaver. A stuffed owl missing its left eye. Russian nesting dolls, which secretly unsettle Sherlock. And a prop engine. 

“Where th’ hell did you get an _engine_?” John frowns at the oils stains on the rug. 

Sherlock looks like an indignant emu, arching his neck as if to spit rather than word-vomit how and where and why and when. John’s giggling before Sherlock draws his run-on-and-on-and-on sentence to a close. 

They bin everything but the cadaver, to which Sherlock delegates the sombrero. 

John whispers sweet nothings in Sherlock’s ear for a whole hour. 


	79. Mozzarella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! It's only the fist week of the season and I can't keep my eyes open. I'll do my best.

John is pouring over a ream of text messages. Printed, portrait, at 120% for his convenience. And how is it, exactly, that Sherlock can be so accommodating and so insulting at the same time? John sighs. Grinds his knuckles against his temples. He’s seeing double, eyes shifting against his will. Losing focus. He has no earthly idea how long it’s been since the start of Sherlock’s most recent case. 

He’s beginning to wonder if there was ever a time before Sherlock’s most recent case.  

John jolts in his seat. Didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes. His head throbs and his body screams at him to just _lie down for the love of God and all things holy!_ He bangs his humerus against the kitchen table. Pain. Radiating down his arm. Better. Much better. Tactics he remembers well from his Afghan days. Standing watch in the middle of the night, nothing but adrenaline and bad coffee to keep him awake. Kneeling on the ground, making himself uncomfortable. The best way to stay alert. 

John stretches. Laces his fingers over his head. Concentrates on the beating on his heart, striking every joint, a resounding chorus of _tired, tired, tired._ But he can’t rest yet. A killer is on the loose and somewhere in this swamp of seemingly meaningless correspondence is irrefutable proof Mr. Angels is none other than Miss Sutherland’s own father. 

John’s back cracks satisfyingly. He smiles when he hears Mrs. Hudson’s ineffable “Hoo-hoo!” upon letting herself inside. “I brought you boys a little snack.” 

Sherlock ignores her. He’s standing at the fireplace, face angled toward the ceiling. He would sprawl on the sofa, but it’s likely his transport will refuse to get back up once he lies down. He rocks on the balls of his feet, rhythm, humming under his breath. _“I know he’s the culprit,”_ he told John twenty hours ago.  _“Unfortunately, my convictions don’t hold water in court.”_  

Sometimes, Sherlock hates evidence. 

Mrs. Hudson sets a plate of mozzarella sticks and marinara sauce in front of John, on top of the stack of e-mails. She offers him a wink and excuses herself with a quiet, “G’night.” 

“Sherlock,” John says because that’s all that needs to be said. 

Surprisingly, Sherlock does not argue or tune John out. He knows it’s fruitless. Just like John knows it’s fruitless to try and explain to Sherlock why it’s a good idea to retain his National Insurance number. Sherlock sits opposite John with a huff. 

“We’ll find proof,” John assures him, yawning. “Eat.” 

“Nope.” 

John nibbles on a mozzerallea stick. “How did your parents meet?” 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. Takes him less than a second to conclude John isn’t scheming to make him eat. Mostly because John is too tired to put up a decent fight.  “Mother was a waitress.” 

John starts. “I thought your mum was old money?” 

“What made you think that?” 

Not only is John too tired to put up a decent fight, John’s too tired to justify his assumptions. He waves his hand noncommittally. “Not important. Continue.” 

“She was friends with…” Sherlock shrugs. “… _someone_ who was forced to leave the cafe, suspicious circumstances, etcetera.” Sherlock prods at the fried cheese with vague suspicion. Something in his demeanor is notably softer. Whether due to their conversation revolving around his mother, or the time of night, or exhaustion in general. John isn’t sure. A mixture of all three. 

“What happened?” John asks. 

“Mother conscripted Father, who was enjoying a ‘damn fine cup of coffee’, to ‘follow that car’.” 

“So she just…had him drive her ‘round?” 

“Hell, no,” Sherlock scoffs. “She drove after them herself. In Father’s car.” 

“Damn.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock is rolling crumbs between his fingers. “How did your parents meet?” 

“Bender.” 

Sherlock is not impressed. 

“Yes, well.” John stuffs another mozzarella stick in his mouth. “Not every relationship begins a ten.” 

“Ten?” 

“You know. On a scale of one to ten. Ten being absurdly romantic and perfect and everything.” 

A beat of silence. 

“Eight,” Sherlock states. He doesn’t specify. He doesn’t really have to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of how Sherlock's parents met is how my grandparents met. Yeah. Grandmother's a BAMF.


	80. Sangfroid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to Mozzarella.

_“Not every relationship begins a ten.”_

_“Ten?”_

_“You know. On a scale of one to ten. Ten being absurdly romantic and perfect and everything.”_  

Ten. Definitely ten. 

Ten’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it? If Sherlock had the opportunity redo their first case together, he would solve it a lot quicker. Realize the cabbie’s role in the midst of, during, or after chasing it down. Something along those lines. John would have been so impressed. John would not have had to fret for his life, either. Sherlock wasn’t going to take that damn pill—and he _was_ right, too—John can stuff his _The Princess Bride_ references. 

John shot a man. For him. Probably not good, but Sherlock finds John’s sangfroid…impressive? Arousing? Endearing? Romantic? Incredible? Ten? Ten times ten. Good morals. Hand couldn’t have shaken at all. Nerves of steel. 

If ten is presumptuous, then nine. Nine is a good number. 

Isn’t it? If he can’t admit their relationship began a ten, he can default to nine. Or maybe nine’s too obvious. Wouldn’t everyone say nine? Sherlock isn’t everyone. He doesn’t want to just choose a number without thinking. Nine is technically perfect since ten is technically unobtainable. Again, Sherlock grants he made mistakes. And the drugs bust. Had to knock it down to— 

“Eight.”

 

 

Vilifying e-mail found, delivered to Lestrade, and Sherlock takes John home to bed before John falls asleep on his feet. Might as well be catatonic when Sherlock helps him climb under the covers, still wearing his trousers and his jumper. 

Sherlock rests his hand on John’s back. Feels him breathing in and out, in and out. Music to his ears. John’s existence inspires him to compose the final movements of Franz Schubert’s Symphony No. 8 in B minor. A right mess. Because really? Sherlock would be ashamed of himself if he weren’t so stunned by the enormity of John’s effect on him. 

John turns, sleepily pulls Sherlock into a kiss. Or what he thinks is a kiss. He’s virtually asleep, but Sherlock lets him. He always lets him. Relishes the taste of John’s breath, in and out. Alive. 

“I change my mind,” Sherlock says quietly. He doesn’t care if it’s inaccessible, destroying the curve. He’s proud to tell him, “Ten.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks down, eleven to go.


	81. Wraith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided the best I'll be able to promise you guys is one chapter a week during Prom/Wedding Season Apocalypse 2013. (March, April, and May.) This one is short, unfortunately, but starting next week my chapters will be longer (hopefully) and more consistent (hopefully). Thank you for your patience. You all are due a surprise and--while it is taking a while--I will inform you that John plus Sherlock plus formalwear is coming along nicely.

“John, we need a new safeword.” 

Lestrade spits coffee out of his mouth. 

John clenches his teeth. Like he can willfully subdue the blush tinging his cheeks. “Later,” he says, which is code for _Shut up, shut up now_. They have codes for everything. Almost everything. Codes are important when one risks one’s life on a daily to weekly basis. Words, gestures, phrases, a composition of John’s military hand/arm signals and Sherlock’s…well. Sherlock’s insistence _Vatican Cameos_ means _duck and cover_.  

The problem is, Vatican Cameos has lost its appeal as a euphemism. Irene knows it, the American Secret Service knows it, Mycroft undoubtedly knows it. Unacceptable. It’s high time Vatican Cameos is put out to pasture. 

Lestrade is hacking up a lung. “Safe…safe…” he’s wheezing. Sputters coffee across his desk, on the photographic evidence. 

“He doesn’t actually mean safeword,” John explains, encouraging Lestrade to lift his arms, clearing his airways. He gives Sherlock one of his many Looks. This one is a combination of _Don’t You Dare_ and _I Swear To God Sherlock If I Find Another Toe In The Breadbox I Will Shave Your Head In Your Sleep_ , which Sherlock finds wholly beside the point. 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Safeword is exactly what I mean.” 

“No, Sherlock, you’re wrong. You mean codeword.” 

“Same difference.” 

Lestrade saves choking to death for another day. He briefs them in fifty words or less (still wheezing) and puts his knees to the breeze. Making excuses, leaves them alone in his office. Exactly as Sherlock planned. He pops up from his seat like a macabre jack-in-the-box and commences picking the lock on Lestrade’s filing cabinet. 

John is fuming. “Safeword? Do you know the meaning of subtlety?” 

“Please,” Sherlock snips. “He thinks we’ve been sleeping together from the start.” 

John blinks. “Seriously?” 

Sherlock shoves his kit in John’s arms. “Keep watch. He’ll realize his mistake in a moment.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Looking.” 

John huffs. Weighing his morals and his devotion to Sherlock. Stands guard amidst his internal struggle because Sherlock trumps. “What’s our new _safeword_ , then?” 

“Wraith.” 

“What?”

“Wraith. Those things on the horses in the movie you made me sit through.” 

“You mean Ringwraith.” 

Sherlock liberates a handful of innocuous pages of text. Stuffs them in his pocket. “Come on, we’re leaving.” He swirls his coat like a bloody thespian. 

John can’t help but notice half the Yard is watching them closely. Too closely. And not because Sherlock is a thief. ( _Damn it, Greg!_ ) 

“Looks like the cat is out of the bag,” John says. Steps into the elevator behind Sherlock, who’s trying unsuccessfully to appear innocent and inconspicuous steepling his fingers against his mouth, pleased with himself. “Happy?” 

“Very.”

“Me, too.”

They giggle all the way to the ground floor.


	82. Butterfly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely. And I intend to update regularly now that I have my feet under me. The first month of the season is always the worst. Please forgive me my tardiness. Have a bit of fluff!

Sherlock is refulgent and pale, surrounded by women dressed in bedazzled eveningwear. In his veins courses the fire of his city, his circulatory system a percussive map of London’s streets. Seventy-two beats per minute. 

He lifts a flute of wine to his mouth. Takes a sip. A grimace John adores in spite of himself. Sherlock watches the couples mingle with desultory curiosity. Reading every gesture, tick, wrinkle and word. Quicksilver eyes roaming from person to person. Indolent. Until he sees the one he’s been looking for. _Waiting for_ , John reminds himself, wincing internally. But the mental reprimand looses its integrity, dissolving under Sherlock’s stare. Caustic during one of his black moods. But today…John decides _undiluted_ is appropriate. Transient at first, a brief moment of acknowledgement. Then intensifying, blinding. No holds barred. 

To say John has butterflies is an understatement. 

Sherlock deposits his half-empty glass on a passing tray without looking. He doesn’t need to, really. He’s consciously aware of everyone in the room, regardless of their position on his Relevance Scale because _“No man is an island, entire of itself, John.”_  

Sherlock is a contradictive little shit when it suits him. 

John realises he’s smiling. 

Sherlock does not weave through the crowd toward him. The crowd breaks upon Sherlock’s tenacity, receding, sand slipping into the sea of bodies. It’s just the two of them; Sherlock’s attention narrows. Hones in on John alone. John can feel it. Like a kiss on his brow, he can feel it. _This_ , John thinks—Sherlock’s boundless poise and grace casting a spell on the variability of his musings— _is Sherlock’s sincerest declaration of love._  

“There you are,” Sherlock may or may not speak aloud. John can’t be sure. 

“Here I am,” John replies in kind. 

They stand together, conversing on a level interminable. Their love masquerades as an alleyway, winding strategically around Sherlock’s heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main." - John Donne


	83. Opalescent

John gazes out the living room window. The fog is as dense as the anger accumulating at the base of his skull, prickling the backs of his eyes. Sherlock is avoiding the subject in a fashion befitting a man who has no sense of tact. He’s flipping through the paper, talking aloud like John cares to hear about a ship christened _Gloria Scott_ , pfft. He doesn’t. Not remotely. Because Sherlock is still recovering from a broken rib, courtesy Aldelbert Gruner. 

John has spent days nursing Sherlock back to health and the offense amassing between them will not be gainsaid. Not if John can help it. 

“You could’ve died,” John interrupts Sherlock’s commentary, eyes trained on nothing outside. His hands ball into fists. 

“But I didn’t.” 

John smiles tightly. Blinks at the ceiling. “See, this is what I don’t understand. Maybe you can explain it to me.” He turns. Faces Sherlock, a vision of thunder. “You’re dying first. You’ve established your right to kick the bucket before I do. Fine. But where do you _get off_ ,” he bites, “putting yourself—no. Shut up.” Sherlock closes his mouth, teeth clicking. “Where do you get off purposefully endangering yourself? Purposefully—yes, I understand that’s how you get your kicks,” John says before Sherlock dares to speak again. “Prove you’re clever. Well, I’ve got news for you Sherlock, and you’d better listen because I’m only saying this once. You do not so much as _think_ about tackling a case by yourself from here on out. You can die fist, but I sure as hell’ll be dying beside you.” 

Sherlock stands gingerly. Folds the paper, sets it aside. Approaches John on the balls of his feet. Silent, aside from the rustle of his robe. They stare at one another, John panting, his fury palpable. Leaves an acrid taste on the tip of his tongue, which he presses against the back of his teeth. 

Sherlock grabs and holds the hem of John’s jumper. The weight of his hand tugging at John’s collar. It’s such a tiny gesture. A little apology, mollifying in its simplicity. John allows Sherlock to kiss the tension out of his mouth and Sherlock allows John to lead him to bed. 

“Suicide pact?” Sherlock suggests. 

John chuckles. Pulls Sherlock down to straddle him where he lies. Splays his hands across Sherlock’s ribcage, holding him carefully, protecting him completely. Guides him across the mattress until John’s looking up into his eyes. Sherlock’s robe encases their torsos, slipping off his shoulders. “We can steal one of Mycroft’s cars. Drive off a cliff.” 

“Points for burgling, but I’ll have to penalize you for execution.” 

Sherlock plops onto John’s lap and John gasps, “Oh. I’m open to suggestions.” 

Sherlock whispers in his ear. Somewhat gruesome and theatrical and ridiculous, Sherlock’s labored breath painting a macabre picture of bridges and guns and John writhes when Sherlock emphasizes an _S_ or a _C_. John bucks the wind out of him after a particularly pornographic _H_. Rolls Sherlock on his back, apologizing while Sherlock tries and fails to look cantankerous. 

“I would have you be the death of me,” Sherlock admits. He’s said this before. John doesn’t doubt he’ll say it again. 

The fog begins to dissipate. The opalescent radiance of dawn filigrees the bedroom, branding the wall with swathes of pale pink and orange. Sherlock cards his fingers through the weak beams of light, stirring dust motes like he’s conducting a symphony. 


	84. Feudal

They’re backstage at an opera house, scouring the dressing rooms for evidence of foul play when John finds a plaid fedora in an unmarked box on the floor. Sherlock questions, “PTO? What do you think it—“ Stops short when he notices John is paying more attention to his reflection than to Sherlock, which smarts his pride. In John’s defense, he looks good. And they have permission to snoop. For once. “What are you doing?” 

“Look at these.” John rifles around inside the box for more hats. He tosses a deerstalker at Sherlock who sidesteps the flap-eared projectile with a scowl. John fixes his fedora at a jaunty angle and says, “His mudder was a mudder.” 

 _What?_  

John sets a pinstriped, godfather hat on Sherlock’s head. “You should wear hats more often.” 

Sherlock concedes. His shoulders gradually lose the tension of a day spent interrogating pampered prima donnas. In all honesty, Sherlock thinks a little blackmail will do them some good. But whatever. He forces himself to smile at his mirror image because that’s what people do. 

“Dames,” John says in an American accent. “And the horses, eh?”

“Did Angelo spike your wine?” 

John takes his hat off. Fiddles with it in his hands, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, c’mon. Just playing. You look like a gangster. Say, ‘Stick ‘em up!’” 

“No.” 

“I know you can act. Show me.” 

Sherlock adjusts his posture. Long legs and bent elbows and tilting his hat forward over his eyes. He snaps his fingers. 

John laughs. “What’s a man like you doing on a plane like this?” 

Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond. 

“We need to brush up on your old movie quotes.” John discards the fedora. He finds pieces of armor and fastens the helmet around his head. Even the feudal era suits him. Sherlock pictures John with a sword in hand easily enough. “Mi lord,” he deadpans. “We ride at dawn.” 

John is a shit actor, but he’s succeeding in making Sherlock smile John’s favorite kind of smile. The one where ‘your face goes all squishy and your eyes all squinty’, which sounds terribly unattractive to Sherlock, but John seems to enjoy inspiring Sherlock’s more squishy, squinty facial expressions lately. 

“Here’s looking at you, kid,” Sherlock drums up. 

John goes all squishy and squinty and Sherlock suddenly understands the appeal. 


	85. Marigold

John emerges from the bath, his tartan robe belted tightly around his waist. Soap and aftershave and the scent of balmy skin. He mock-salutes Sherlock. Sits in his chair with an indulgent groan. After six hours of reconnaissance, a foot chase, and an onslaught of goose droppings, John is milking the conclusion of their most recent case for all its worth. 

It would be annoying if Sherlock weren’t so distracted by John’s hair. He’s watching it dry. Actually _watching it dry_ he’s so bored. He resents John’s willingness to lounge at his leisure while Sherlock is cursed to mourn the dwindling creativity of the criminal classes. 

Geese. Honestly. 

Sherlock sighs. Cradles his chin on bent fingers. Rubs at his upper lip. John’s hair looks brown when wet. A shade of marigold in colour, presently. The aroma of shampoo and deodorant a pleasant reprieve from the stench of bird shit. Sherlock sighs again. More tolerantly this time, imitating John’s modus operandi vis-à-vis uneventful afternoons. His nervous tick looses its tempo and he’s caressing his mouth. 

To hell with it. If John can indulge in the little things so can Sherlock. 

Sherlock catapults his body from its torpor with a vicious kick of his legs. One step, two, and he plants his nose in John’s hair. He’s done this before, he’s aware. Second occurrence in as many months and maybe it means something, but Sherlock can’t be arsed to analyse… _fetishes_ for Christ’s sake!  

John’s head is warm from the shower. Sherlock nibbles on his hair. John closes his eyes while Sherlock licks under his fringe. 

“What are you doing?” he asks perfunctorily. 

“Hn,” is Sherlock’s response. 

“Alright, then.” 

John relaxes under Sherlock’s ministrations. Sherlock familiarises himself with John’s eyebrows, his eyelashes, the helix of his ear. Mouth and tongue and he breathes out and out some more, dizzily marking John with shapeless words, airy promises. John gasps; “oh”s and “ah”s ghosting against Sherlock’s neck. Their knees knocking. Brushing. And Sherlock’s kneeling between John’s legs. His back undulates, one vertebra at a time. John braces his shoulders against the chair, lifting his bottom out of the seat just so he can reach. 

Sherlock pants across John’s cheek, the tip of his nose, his philtrum. Draws his upper lip between his teeth. Smiles when he feels John smile. Paints his gums with the tip of his tongue, a cartographic study of the bumps and the divots. It’s a bit messy. And slobbery. But John’s beginning to tremble and nothing, Sherlock thinks, will compel him to stop now that John’s lisping breathlessly, “Stherluck” and “Stherluck” and “ _Kisth me_ , dammit.” 

Sherlock does not. He’s too busy toying with John’s frenulum. 

John’s laughter is like high-velocity blood spatter, Sherlock muses. 

Sherlock’s kiss must be the murder weapon. 

Sherlock congratulates himself on the metaphor, sliding down John’s chest and his belly and sitting in John’s lap and _FWUMP_ —the chair topples over. 


	86. Infinite

They’re walking home from Angelo’s, the streets a symphony of London nightlife. Crisp, autumn air. Teasing Sherlock’s fringe. The conversation between them gives birth to brave, new worlds inside John’s chest. 

An afflux of galaxies, twinkling like the stars Sherlock appreciates in spite of himself. John giggles with the improbabilities. 

Sherlock grabs John’s hand. 

John stiffens, turns. On his guard, sweeping darkened alleyways for signs of— 

But Sherlock isn’t pulling. Pushing. Leading him into danger. 

He’s blushing. 

John’s Sherlock-effused universe collapses on itself, a black hole of emotion sublimating an impression of infinity. It’s just the two of them. One anchoring the other anchoring the other, tethered to a single moment in time. 

John draws the back of Sherlock’s hand to his lips. Plants a kiss on his knuckles. 

Sherlock is silent. John doesn’t let go. 


	87. Recalcitrant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The worst of the season is over. Thank God. Updates will continue to be sporadic throughout the month of May, but I won't be going weeks without posting again. =)

John opens his eyes to find Sherlock staring at him. Not _just_ staring. Sherlock never _just_ _does_ anything. His gaze is concerted. Intense. Almost as if he’s attempting to see into John’s brain by sheer force of will. John rubs at his forehead absently. Smacks the taste of sleep out of his mouth, the taste of Sherlock out of his mouth. _Oh my God I kissed Sherlock Holmes more than kiss him what if he regrets it what if—_  

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps. “It’s half ten in the morning,” White-knuckling the sheets, shoulders tense. Hair in disarray. “I can’t do this.” 

 _Here it comes,_ John panics. _The excuses. The_ it’s-not-you _s,_ it’s-me _s. The_ John-last-night-was-a-mistake _s._  

“This…” Sherlock spits the word, “ _domesticity_.” 

John blinks. He blinks again. Assumes that Sherlock is referring to…a lie in. And the fact that Sherlock is forcing himself—literally forcing himself, if the tremors in his arms and legs are any indication—to stay in bed, doing something he would otherwise abhor, avoid. Like laundry, or the dishes, or wearing polyester. Sherlock is frowning, recalcitrant. God help him, but John thinks it’s endearing. 

“You don’t have to stay, you know. It’s fine. Go back to work.” 

Before John can finish, Sherlock is out of bed. Naked as a jaybird. 

“You’re welcome,” John calls after him. He turns over and goes back to sleep. 


	88. Pristine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long, long last. My hours at work will resume as normal. Updates are to be expected daily.

Ever since Sherlock met John, he hasn’t shot up. Not once. 

Not technically. 

That is to say, he hasn’t resorted to cocaine to expunge the noise, noise, _noise_. Or the irrepressible itch, the bitter cocktail of Moriatry’s endgame; one part loneliness and two parts tragedy. But a substitute? No. A counteragent, mores like. John would approve of the term. But maybe not if he knew how the idea, the memory, the thought of his scent, his presence, his _everything_ reduces Sherlock to a bliss-drunken stupor he’d rather pretend never ever ever happened, ever. 

But bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss. Pristine. Flowing through his veins like taffeta, feather down, like corpulent threads of gold spooling and un-spooling and tying his nervous system in a double sheel bend. A smile, witty repartee. John Watson is arguably more addictive than any opiate Sherlock has smoked, popped, snorted, or injected. 

He’s been shooting up with ‘John’ a lot lately. 

It’s not, nor ever will be, considered _fantasizing_. Because Sherlock Holmes does not fantasize. He pursues. He consumes. And he won’t quit. 


	89. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that my computer is working properly, expect updates daily. =)

Sherlock Holmes is baked. Smashed. Ripped. Fried. Toasted. 

John is amused. 

Because Sherlock’s inebriation has more to do with a root canal and less to do with bandwagons and the falling off thereof. John is decidedly not angry at Sherlock for requesting happy gas. He shepherds Sherlock into the cab, Sherlock mumbling how Holmeses have a history of soft teeth and Mycroft’s gained five pounds in the last month and Lestrade is the best of a bad lot and _I think you have a strawberry on your nose, John._

John shouldn’t be encouraging him. He really shouldn’t. But he can’t help himself. Who could? Honestly? Sherlock, even at his most vulnerable, is conscious of every word, gesture, thought. He never does or says or thinks for the hell of it. So John can understand the attraction; why Sherlock turned to cocaine in his youth. 

John grabs Sherlock’s hands. “I don’t have strawberries on my nose.” 

“Straw _berry_ ,” Sherlock corrects him. “Sssingular. Give me a pen.” 

“I don’t have a pen.” 

“Give me a pen,” Sherlock commands the cab driver. 

John hands him the requisite toothbrush from the dentist. 

Sherlock proceeds to write nothing on his trouser leg. “This pen is out of ink. I’m tired.” 

John snorts. “Are you? That’s a first.” 

“I hate being tired.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re laughing at me.” 

“No, I’m…” No point in lying. “Yes. Alright. Yes, I am.” 

Sherlock rolls his head against the back of the seat. Normally, his gaze is piercing. Under the haze of anesthesia, the best his eyes can manage is _prodding_. “Why are you laugh—laughing at me? You don’t laugh at me.” He heaves a sigh. “You’re a the beacon of Amon Dîn, you know. Third star to the right and straight on ‘til morning.” 

John smiles at him. Not just any smile. His _Can-I-love-you-more?_ smile. Sherlock has successfully nailed and butchered obscure and famous quotes alike. He finds this incredibly charming. “Second star,” John murmurs. 

“Ah!” Sherlock’s eyes widen. Prodding again. “Aurora Borealis.” His fingertips supplement, probing the corners of John’s eyes. “Pretty.” 

There are no words. Which is good because there’s nothing more to say.


	90. Subterfuge

“—and that was the last straw. He forgot their anniversary and she kill—“

Sherlock freezes. Surmounting dread like a cold shower in the deepest of deep space. _Shit, shit, shit!_ Sherlock cuts his eyes to John, who’s waiting for him to continue. Eyebrows knitting now that he’s stuttered to a halt. “—killed him. Obvious. Boring. John?” Sherlock turns on his heel and strides briskly toward the main road. There’s another mystery to solve. Namely, their anniversary.

 

 

John’s laptop reveals nothing but porn and bog entries. His office at the surgery, however, yields exactly what Sherlock’s looking for. The fifteenth of March, circled in felt tip. Sherlock steeples his fingers against his mouth. Sifts though his memory. Frown more pronounced when the day neither corresponds with the consummation of their relationship nor Sherlock’s proposal of marriage nor John’s acquiescence. 

They haven’t spoken of marriage since. John’s word means more to Sherlock than anyone else’s, anyway. A piece of paper, God’s sanction hardly compares to John’s YES. So the question is: What happened on the fifteenth that designated the Ides of March as their anniversary? 

“Sherlock?” John is standing in the doorway, one hand holding a clipboard and the other resting on the door handle. “What are you doing here?” 

“I needed to see you,” Sherlock lies. 

“For what? Are you hurt?” 

“What? No! Of course not. I—“ And for no reason whatsoever, Sherlock’s ability to lie leaves him high and dry. He opens and closes his mouth before he finishes lamely with, “—want to borrow your stethoscope.” 

John stares. Stares some more. Stares the hell out of him. “Really?” 

Sherlock nods. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Well, thank God you aren’t completely hopeless!” Sherlock snaps before he swans out of the room.

 

 

One obstacle down, another to go. Sherlock has identified the day of their anniversary. Now all that’s left is a present. Sherlock browses the internet for inspiration. The top three gifts for anniversaries are sex, food, and technology. 

John’s awful at technology so sex and food it is. 

Sherlock knows what John likes, but John likes a lot. Sex-wise and food-wise. He needs to narrow the playing field or he’ll be slaving over a hot stove all day and then slaving under a hot John all night. Neither of which appeals to him, presently. 

Sherlock corners John in the bathroom as he’s brushing his teeth. “What are your favorite sexual positions?” While John’s spitting up his lungs, Sherlock reiterates, “This has absolutely nothing to do with a present. I’m asking because I’m curious.” 

Satisfied with John’s (wheezy) answers, Sherlock takes notes. Configures a flow chart that will knock John’s socks off. 

 

 

On the fifteenth of March, Sherlock grills steak. (Rather, he asks Angelo to grill him steak and Angelo grills him steak.) He waits for John in nothing but his robe. 

When he gets home from work, John pokes at his supper with one of the few, clean forks available to him. “What did you do?” 

Sherlock curses under his breath. “Fine. I didn’t make it, okay? Angelo was kind enough—“ 

“I’ll ask again,” John says evenly. Sets his fork down. Breathes through his nose. “What. Did. You. Do?” Finally notices. Fully distracted. “Are you wearing pants?” 

“No.” Pause. “Happy Anniversary.” 

John reels. Turns a nasty shade of puce. “Anniversary?” 

Sherlock feigns hurt feelings. Doesn’t take much. What he gets for jumping to conclusions. “You forgot. After all the trouble of—“ 

“You just said you didn’t make it!” 

“I made a flow chart.”

 

 

John’s socks of subsequently knocked off. 


	91. Zygomatic

John dabs at Sherlock’s face. An impressive bruise is beginning to form. He resists the urge to kiss Sherlock’s boo-boo; because while he loves nothing more than to yank Sherlock’s chain, he has questions. It would behoove him to keep the mollycoddling to a bare minimum. 

“Who taught you to box?” 

Sherlock is texting Lestrade around John’s back. Hooking his arm under John’s arm and tilting his head to one side, his injured cheek angled toward the light—the better for John to see. “Taught myself.” 

John smoothes an elastoplast across Sherlock’s zygomatic bone. “You let him hit you.” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“There is nothing more tedious,” Sherlock drones, reciting the oft-repeated anthem of his supposedly mind-numbing existence. “than knowing _how_ and _when_ and _why_ all the bloody time. I let him hit me because I thought it would inspire a rebound. I was mistaken.” Leans forward. Breathes heavily into John’s shoulder. Like the world at large is unbearable and obvious and can’t John please make it better? 

Of course he can. 

John presses his open mouth against Sherlock’s cheek. Bestows a particularly wet raspberry. Much to Sherlock’s… _surprise_. 

John smiles. Steps out of Sherlock’s arm, frozen mid-text. Leaves Sherlock alone in the bathroom without another word. 

Sherlock trails after him, face flushed. He leaves his mobile on the sink. 


	92. Salacious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had a busy week. The season refused to go out with a whimper. That said, please enjoy this drabble with extra fluff on top. And I do apologize to the one who prompted the word salacious, as she did not intend for it to be construed as romantic. But I couldn’t help myself! Sorry!

John kisses him. And Sherlock doesn’t know why. 

He hates not knowing why. Realizes John is aware he hates not knowing anything so John relieving Sherlock of his half-eaten plate of risotto, safely depositing their supper on the coffee table, and capturing Sherlock’s mouth may very well be strategic on John’s part. But to what end? That’s the question. 

Sherlock is still pondering said question while John levers him against the couch, on his back. Sherlock goes willingly. Because he’s curious. Not because heat, salacious and swelling like a balloon in the pit of his stomach. Every breath he takes inflating and inflating and more and yes. Breathing deeper. Faster. He can feel lust curling his toes, bubbling against his skin. Like a kettle. Water boils. (John breathes against Sherlock’s cheek.) Steam is created. (Sherlock keens. John kisses his throat. Sweat and spit.) Limited room within the confines of the kettle, pressure begins to build. (Sherlock undulates, arching his spine.) More and more steam is created, has nowhere to go. Begins to escape through the spout. 

Sherlock sighs audibly, “John.” 

“Sherlock?” 

“Why?” 

John noses down his neck. Kisses his clavicle. 

“Why not?” is John’s response. Settles in, which involves elbows and knees and as urbane and tactile as John has proven to be in the past, their couch is only so big. 

Plus, John is a heavy man. Not too heavy, but heavy enough to bully the air out of Sherlock’s lungs. Increasing the pressure and oh. Oh. _“Oh,”_ Sherlock grouses. Or tires to grouse. Sounds like he’s caught between being incommoded and aroused. Frowns when John appreciates his sensitivity with an ‘mhm’ of his own, eyes twinkling. “You’re heavy.” 

“Bedroom?” 

Sherlock doesn’t want the bedroom. Sherlock doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want John to move. “Idiot,” he says instead of ‘stay’ or ‘no’. 

John is fluent in Sherlockian. “Berk,” he says instead of ‘I love you, too’. 

They kiss. The taste of mushrooms and cheese and none of these flavors are particularly savory secondhand. Doesn’t stop Sherlock from licking any semblance of risotto off the corners of John’s mouth. His lips buzzing with the stimulation. Hot breath. _Yes, again, yes,_ Sherlock thinks. Gasps aloud. 

John smirks. Sherlock chuckles in spite of himself. “John,” he repeats himself. Less a question, but the query remains on the tip of his tongue. Sweet. Alluring. And John pursues it with a single-mindedness Sherlock loves. He loves. He— _“I...”_ his voice betrays him. _“I…”_  

John counters with, _“You.”_  

Mouths another _why_ against John’s chin. And another. Finally vocalizes, “Why are you doing this?” 

“Because we want to.” John’s hand finds its way under Sherlock’s robe, under his shirt. Rubs his thumb across the breadth of his ribcage. “You’ve been desperate for my attention all day.” 

Sherlock objects to desperate. 

John settles for impatient. Explores Sherlock's chest, his belly with the tips of his fingers as they argue about semantics. Sherlock pretends not to notice, but cards his fingers through John’s hair when John nuzzles against his bare skin. Arms wrapping around Sherlock’s back. Pulling him closer. _Ah_. Sherlock squirms. The pressure amassing, threatens to consume him. The tipping point. Sherlock braces himself, teetering on the brink of feelings and emotions he never let himself succumb to before John. 

But John is different. The pleasures he inspires are different. No longer meaningless. 

He knows why. 

Sherlock allows himself to be overwhelmed because John desires to overwhelm him. 


	93. Mascot

“It would do wonders for your public image,” Victor says. 

John enters the kitchen, bags of groceries in his hands. 

“I don’t care about my _public image_ ,” Sherlock bites. Stares intently through his microscope at a smear of who-knows-what. 

“The children will be so disappointed.” 

John opens the frige. Looks over his shoulder. Shoves the new milk between the zucchini and the beer. “Children?” 

With a sonorous sigh, Victor reiterates, “ _Underprivileged_ children.” 

“Victor is trying to convince me I’m their hero. Thinks it will persuade me to lecture them about not abusing drugs and stranger danger—“ (John sucks on his lips to keep from snorting.) “—and looking both ways before crossing the street…” 

“None of which you do well.” 

Sherlock huffs, not without humor. “Like I said. I care absolutely nothing about my public image.” 

“I do.” It warms a part of John’s heart to hear Victor support Sherlock. Until he says: “John does.” 

Sherlock glances at John. And, dammit, something about him softens. Eyebrows furrowing and the gentleness in his eyes surmises the intensity of their bond for but a moment. The cold mask of indifference resurfaces. But it fools no one. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

 

 

It’s John who elects to play mascot. It’s the least he can do, Sherlock decked out in not only a deerstalker but also buttons and whistles and the plasticized grin he wears when he actually envies a member of the criminal classes. Twenty crotch-dumplings are gazing at him in wide-eyed wonder. 

“Drugs are bad. Don’t use them,” Sherlock instructs. “Unless you can get away with it.” 

John elbows him. 

“Which you won’t.” 

“Because Sherlock will find you,” John adds, his voice muffled from inside the bulldog head. _Billy’s_ head. Sherlock calls everything/everyone Billy he doesn’t have the energy to commit to memory, John has discovered. He feels sorry for Angelo’s busboy. He feels sorry for himself, sweating and discomfited and how in the hell is he supposed to reach for his gun? Not that he needs to. Not that he carried a loaded gun inside a classroom full of kids. But the urge to free his arms tingles at the base of his skull. Tickling, tickles. Full-body shiver he morphs into a little jig. “And take you to prison,” he sing-songs for good measure. 

Victor compels Sherlock to show everyone how he uses his magnifying glass. 

A chorus of “whooooa”s splinters Sherlock’s contempt. Pleased with the attention nonetheless.

 

 

Victor thanks John and Sherlock for their time. “I think Billy the crime dog is a hit.” 

John sincerely hopes not. Besides, _Take A Nibble Out of Crime_ doesn’t strike his fancy. He cradles Billy’s plush head in his arms. Waves Victor goodbye. “Thank God that’s over.” 

Sherlock is partially catatonic at this point.

One of the dumplings runs outside. Tugs on Sherlock’s greatcoat. 

“What?” 

She tugs harder, her hand balled in a pudgy fist. 

Sherlock lowers himself to his haunches. “Yes?” 

“I have’s’ta tell you a se’cwet,” she whispers. 

Sherlock bends his head lower. 

She kisses his cheek. Runs away blushing. 

Sherlock’s face is possibly the cutest thing John has ever seen.


	94. Paragon

_“Eye-e-eye’m. So. In. Love with you,”_ John sings under his breath. He’s dressed smartly in a cornflower button down. His trousers are neatly pressed. He lights the candlesticks Sherlock’s not-really-saving for an experiment, but he finds himself resenting John’s _setting-the-mood_ ness with a fiery passion that John will never discover because his face is blank and unreadable, thank you. 

“I’ll buy you more tomorrow,” John says. 

Sherlock sniffs. Pretends he’s otherwise engaged. “What’s her name?” Fingers an F sharp on his violin. 

“Susan.” 

“Hm.” 

John checks on his roast. “She’s a perfectly nice girl.” 

“You’re making it worse.” Sherlock gazes unseeingly at the ceiling, John’s movements in the kitchen tweaking and _tweaking_. A tic, a frown. A snarl and he’s on his feet. Stalking John’s romantic table arrangement with avid displeasure. If he can’t fool John, he will antagonize him. Because? No reason. Sherlock doesn’t need reasons, he needs for John not to invite strange women into their flat. 

Sherlock flaps his hand at the china and the polished forks and knives. His robe flutters as he gestures. “You’re pulling all the stops. You’re trying to impress her. You—“ 

“Don’t care,” John interrupts him from halfway inside the oven. “I don’t care,” he says upon standing, “what you have to say about her or me or anything because tonight is going to be perfect and you. You, Sherlock,” John jabs a finger at him, “are going to behave yourself.” 

Sherlock belts his robe tightly around his waist and shuts himself inside his room.

 

 

After an hour or two or…okay. After exactly one hour, fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds, Sherlock leaves his room and sits opposite John at the table. The candles are still lit, burning low. The roast is marinating in its lukewarm juices, the aroma of potatoes and carrots and red wine titillating Sherlock’s sense of smell. Tickling the back of his throat. 

John is resting his chin in his hand, his elbow on the table. Staring at nothing until Sherlock bodily interferes. Can’t stare into space when space is occupied by the torso of Sherlock Holmes. 

John offers him a smile. Sherlock returns it. 

“Stood you up?” 

John shrugs. “S’not like I didn’t deserve it.” 

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. 

“Oh, c’mon.” John drops his hand and nudges a potato. “I skive off and solve crimes with you all the time.” 

A pang of what may or may not be sympathy. Sherlock helps himself to some roast to make amends. It seems to please John in some form or fashion because he stops playing with his food and starts cutting into it. For a few minutes, the only sound between the two of them consists of the clinking of their cutlery. They don’t look at each other while they eat. Comfortable silence swathes Sherlock’s prickly disposition and John’s low spirits. The longer they share their meal, their unspoken camaraderie, the more comfortable they feel. 

“You’re not in love with her,” Sherlock says. Sips his wine.   

“Wha—no. Not yet.” 

“You want to be.” 

“Haven’t decided.” John wipes his mouth on a napkin too ornate to belong to either of them. 

“Well, she’d be lucky to have you.” Sets his glass on the table. Rubs the stem between his fingers. 

“Lucky.” John snorts. Follows Sherlock’s lead and takes a swig of the Pinot. Not really his taste. Bought it for Susan. Grimaces as he swallows. “I think that’s a matter of opinion.” Another swig. 

Sherlock watches him drink. “No. You are a good man. Bravery and honesty are but two of the many traits I admire in…” Pause. Licks his lips. “You…are. A paragon of…good,” he finishes awkwardly. 

John stares at him. Keeps staring at him. Sets his glass down next to Sherlock’s. “I. That’s nice. Um. Of you to say.” Exhales a, “Thanks.” 

Sherlock grumps, “I’m complimenting you. That’s what you do when you compliment people. Would you have me compliment you stintingly?” Touches John’s wrist. “She’d be lucky to have you,” he says again. Like he’s daring John to argue. 

For the first time, it’s John that’s blushing under Sherlock’s praise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the longest time, this chapter read: His pants are neatly pressed. Because, yes. John Watson presses his pants.


	95. Heliotrope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably change it to: Updates daily unless work or life intervenes. Sorry for the delay! Admittedly, I stole this scene from Kim Possible.

Sherlock orders his clothes from a catalogue. A fancy catalogue. John does not begrudge him this. Sherlock is a grown man who earns money and should spend his income how he chooses. The catalogue is esoteric. Beautiful people living in a beautiful world of culture and upper crust-ness. John has never challenged Sherlock’s brand loyalty until he sees an advertisement that looks somewhat familiar to him. 

Sherlock is sprawled on the couch, thinking. The catalogue is open in his lap, forgotten while he parses whatever or whomever he’s parsing. John thumbs through the _Daily Mail_ until he finds the ad he’s looking for. 

Rather than say anything, he holds the picture in question for Sherlock to observe. An everyman wearing the same shirt, John believes, as the too-pretty-to-be-real male model loafing the entirety of a two-page spread.  

Sherlock sniffs haughtily. Goes back to thinking. 

John drops his arm. Pages rustling. “It’s the same.” 

“No.” 

John stares down at Sherlock. Licks his lips. “How?” 

Sherlock points. “This is heliotrope. That’s purple.” 

A beat of silence. 

John breaks first. His face splits into a grin. And they laugh together. 


	96. Definition

Sherlock sees his mother kiss his father on the cheek. He gauges his father’s reaction. The corners of his mouth tightening, his father does not divert his attention from the medical journal he’s reading. 

 _So this is love,_ Sherlock supposes.

 

 

Two of his classmates hold hands in the library. They’re both scouring the pages for Waldo, who isn’t all that hard to find, really. Sherlock doesn’t understand the appeal. He watches them closely anyway, his concentration divided between their interactions and the dead bee he found on the windowsill. 

The boy (whose name escapes Sherlock—not that his observational study will be compromised whether he knows who he’s watching or not) turns the page before the girl (also nameless) finds Waldo. She objects. The boy ignores her. Hands held tight. 

 _This is love,_ Sherlock supposes. He plucks the hindwings from the bee’s thorax.

 

 

Sherlock is ten. He tugs at the bowtie around his neck. Resents Mycroft for aging another year. Resents the guests invading their home to pay him unnecessary deference for achieving nothing except enduring the passage of time. Polite laughter, a mishmash of conversation orchestral tuning to Sherlock’s ears. Nowhere near as beautiful, but fascinating in its own right. 

A young woman is presented to Mycroft. She has managed to squeeze into a size two when she should be wearing a size four. Face artfully painted, lipstick in rogue. Hair washed and styled and pinned. She’s beaming. 

Mycroft is unimpressed. Just as he’s unimpressed with most everything. The apathetic core of his character does not show on his face. No, he twists and bends and pinches his features to resemble that of a man who is pleased. Charmed. Delighted. Any and every variant. Mycroft offers the young woman his hand. 

And she—nails meticulously polished, time and money and more money and more time—accepts his offer to dance. 

_So this is love._

 

 

They’ve been sleeping together. It’s obvious. Of course it’s obvious. Everybody knows it. Neither perpetrator attempts to hide the evidence of their lovemaking. They cast furtive glances at each other all morning, over breakfast. Sherlock feels no need to point out their indiscretion. Because it would invite animosity on his part and because he wishes to survey them undisturbed. They appear to be happy. Giggling into their porridge. Eyes bright, cheeks flush. 

 _Is this love?_ Sherlock wonders. 

 _This is love,_ he confirms the next day. The signs of sex decorating Sebastian’s neck and hands and lips. They do not belong to her. And she knows it. Sebastian remains bright-eyed. He remains in good spirits. Sherlock does not witness her smile for the remainder of his career at university.

 

 

He’s desperate. Skin itching, crawling, host to microscopic insets Sherlock tears at with his fingernails. Gouging channels, bleed them out. He steadies himself against the wall. Cold, brick, damp. The smell of mildew and vomit and other bodily fluids he’s probably standing in because his shoes are sticky. 

Sherlock hugs himself. Scratches through his sleeves. Waits and waits and waits for an eternity. Time and space pressing down, down, down on his shoulders. His vertebra allocating the pain throughout his spine. Down his arms and legs and he can’t remember when he was. Or where he’s gone. Or why he’s supposed to be. But he does remember the name and the face of his dealer. 

Branded on the inside of his skull. On the backs of his eyeballs. Searing, hot. Tears trickle down his face when a familiar presence offers him sweet, sweet relief. His mind, barreling, helter-skelter, off the tracks, off the map. Falling, plummeting into a ruinous abyss. Chartreuse and calm and quiet and he can’t resist the call of the void. 

 _This is love,_ he thinks as he falls to his knees.

 

 

Sherlock has said something Not Good. Can’t be sure which part John finds so appalling, but he honestly doesn’t give a fuck. Sherlock throws his beaker against the wall. Shattered glass and John’s shattered resolve. 

John retrieves his coat. Leaves Sherlock alone in the flat.

Fine. Go. They all abandon him in the end. 

Slowly, Sherlock’s temper dissipates. He’s tired. Empty. He sits on the couch, rakes his hands through his curls. Tugs at his scalp. Keeps tugging until kind fingers encourage him to relinquish his hair, to lift his head. Once Sherlock meets John’s eyes, John drops a kiss on his brow. 

Sherlock pushes him away, but weakly. John holds his ground. Patience and devotion making Sherlock itch in a way altogether memorable. Doesn’t feel the need, the aggravating _need_ , to rip the sensation out of his body. No, Sherlock wants more. More is better. More is good. He pulls John closer. And closer John remains. 

 _This is love,_ Sherlock knows. 


	97. Bonsai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because two of you asked.

“Angelo’s?” Sherlock asks. What he means is, _You haven’t eaten in several hours. You must be hungry._  

“I could eat,” John replies. What he means is, _Thank you._

 

 

John drops his luggage beside the door. 

Sherlock looks up from his book. He says, “You’re home later than expected.” What he means is, _I hate conferences that take you away from me._  

“Late train.” _I hate conferences that take me away from you._

 

 

The building goes up in flames. Sherlock breathes in. Fear gripping his heart. Sharp and icy and he stands alone in the middle of the street. Lost. Confused. Because this can’t be happening. This absolutely cannot be happening.  

A figure stumbles onto the pavement. Hair singed, face smudged with soot. 

Sherlock breathes out. Half drags, half carries John away from the fiery remains of Mr. Wilson’s pawnshop. Practically throws him to the ground on the opposite side of the road. 

Sherlock snarls, “You idiot! You fucking imbecile! The next time I say run, you run!” What he means is, _I’m scared. You scared me. Please don’t scare me like that again._

 

 

The culprit cries, “Banzai!” before he leaps into the Thames. What he means is anyone’s guess. Doesn’t really matter. Lestrade and his team are waiting for their man down stream. 

Sherlock asks, “Why did he shout the Chinese tradition of penjing?” What he means is, _I’m revealing to you that I’m confused. Because you will set me straight and you’d better not be a condescending shit, John._  

“He said banzai.” John struggles not to laugh. “Which means one-thousand years or something. Not bonsai the plant.” What he means is, _You’re adorable._  

“My life is a lie,” Sherlock deadpans. His humiliation is worth John’s uncontrollable giggling.

 

 

Sherlock analyzes. Touches. Tastes. Kisses John’s scar. Fascination bright and scrupulous and burning John’s pleasure receptors at both ends. Hot. Smoldering. Sherlock diverts his ministrations to John’s neck, seamless. Every inch of John as absorbing as the next. 

John breathes, “Sherlock.” The meaning is inestimable. 


	98. Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hard drive crashed. I've lost a good deal of my documents, including Greater Far. Which means my list of words is inaccessible. I won't have access to my new computer until the end of this week--and I'll do my best to post between now and then--but I may be MIA for a few days. It will take me time to unearth all of the words that have been submitted via comments so I'll make up my own until I'm able to do so.

"I'm for a shower," John says.

"I'll join you." Sherlock removes his scarf. Toes off his soiled shoes by the door.

John is in shock. Because _join him_. Sherlock wants to. And shower sex is a little steamy, isn't it? At this point in their relationship? Maybe Sherlock is kinkier than he lets on. Maybe he lied about being asexual. Or maybe John should stop assuming that an asexual man can't have kinks. Can they have kinks? A paradox? Almost an oxymoron? Like jumbo shrimp? Asexual kinks? Except not really. No. Not an oxymoron. He needs to stop thinking, now.

John walks into the bathroom. Undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Drops his trousers. Runs the shower, testing the water with his hand intermittently until the temperature pleases him. Finds comfort in the familiar rattle and clang of the pipes. Because that hasn't changed. He isn't dreaming. And, and. Can't decide if he should wait for Sherlock or--John removes his pants and steps underneath the showerhead. Nope. Not waiting. Waiting makes him feel weird. Jittery. He doesn't like jittery. He's not sixteen for Christ's sake. Clenches and unclenches his fists. Turns his back to the spray. Er, wait. Turns again. Water in his eyes. Spins in a circle, trying to get comfortable. Look presentable. In the shower. Jesus.

The bathroom door opens. Closes. The slap of bare feet and the rustle of clothing.

John may or may not be finding it hard to breathe. Faces the showerhead so Sherlock won't notice how nervous he is.

Sherlock hops in behind him. Or, well. Not hop. Sherlock doesn't hop. He's too graceful to hop. He bounds. Or springs. Or something.

While John searches his mind for applicable synonyms, Sherlock advances. Grabs John by his waist. Angles him against the shower wall. And then maneuvers beneath the water, sighing audibly. Twists the knob, boiling hot. "Mmm," he approves. Then, "My back, John."

Oh.

_Oh._

John aggressively lathers soap. Aggressively scrubs Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock is forced to brace himself, elbows locking his arms stable, lest John bully him out of his spot. "Easy!" he complains, but tucks his chin against his chest. Widens his stance. Arcs his spine, convex, a cue for John to _continue_ and _wash me thoroughly_ and _lower, please_ and what a bastard.

John is cold. And only slightly wet. And still smells of sewage. He cleans Sherlock's backside anyway. Can't decide if he's relieved Sherlock is who he always is or disappointed there actually won't be sex. Looks at the shower floor. Should invest in adhesive stickers if they ever have shower sex. Could be dangerous.

Sherlock rinses the suds off his back. _Thank you and goodnight,_ John thinks sourly. 

Sherlock plucks the washcloth from John's hands. Motions for him to turn. Delightfully surprised, John obeys. Sherlock does not move from beneath the showerhead, but he rubs John down with care. Water dripping from his hair and onto John's neck. Considerate hands against his body. And nothing, John believes, could be more intimate.


	99. Giggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm typing directly into the Chapter Text box so don't be alarmed if there are more typos than usual. Thank you for your patience! And for the lovely advice and reminders to back up my documents. You live and you learn. Then you die and forget it all. 
> 
> Please note I know nothing about Britain's legal system. Also, the last line is a reverse/repeat from Chapter 15: Skull.

Sherlock's mobile is ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

John hasn't answered his phone. Why won't he answer his phone?

Oh. Because it's John who's calling. Because John is running an errand. Necessary, but inconvenient.

Sherlock answers, "John."

"Sherlock," John huffs. Annoyed. Helpless affection in his voice when he says, "I'm at the Yard."

"Yes," Sherlock says slowly. "I sent you there. What's taking you so long?"

"No...I mean." (Sherlock imagines John is licking his lips.) "I'm at the Yard. I need you to post bail."

Sherlock smiles so hard it hurts his face. Tries to sound casual. He hopes John doesn't hear the unquantifiable glee tickling the back of his throat. John isn't hurt. Doesn't sound hurt. He sounds breathelss. Excited. ( _Yes, good._ ) Sherlock is going to enjoy this. Turns off his microscope. "Bail, hmm?"

John fails to stifle his giggling. Little gasps of delight directly against the mouthpiece. Directly into Sherlock's ear. Straight to his brain, lighting up his large-scale neural networks. "I...may've...punched your old pal from Uni in the face."

"Victor?"

"Nah, the other one."

Sherlock's smile widens. His eyes crinkle. "Sebastian."

"Guilty."

"So it would seem." Sherlock grabs his coat, switching his phone from one hand to the other so he can slide his arms into the sleeves. "You ran into him on your way to see Lestrade."

"Yeah. Dunno why he was at the Yard to begin with, but we shared the lift. He told me he had a headache. I told him it was a tumor."

Sherlock snorts.

"I was joking, obviously."

"You told him as much."

"'Course."

"But he was angry."

"'Course."

"And then what happened?" Sherlock locks the front door behind him.

"Then he said things. So I punched the bastard."

"Oh."

They're just this side of uncontrobable laughter.

"Please, John. Close your eyes. You have to maximize your visual memory. I need you to describe--"

"I took a picture."

Sherlock fucking loves this man.


	100. Name

"John!" Sherlock cries. Leaps out of his chair, his robe unfurling, silken blue. Hasty footsteps from the kitchen to John's laptop, which is in John's lap. Sherlock navigates from YouTube funny cat videos to his website with precise and fluid typing, sleeve ghosting across the keys. "John," he says again. Eager. Brimming over. Turns the computer so John can put two and two together. So John can see what he sees. So John can brim over, too. So they can drown together. The good kind of drowning. The breathing-is-boring kind.

Their eyes meet. A union of opposites.

They smile.

Sherlock closes the laptop with a snap. And off they go.

 

 

"John..." Sherlock forces himself to inhale. Exhale. This is the not-good kind of drowning. The kind where breathing isn't boring because it hurts so bad his feet are numb in his Leeds. Sherlock shifts his weight. Like he's lost his footing. Like he's hurtling into space standing stock still, opening and closing his mouth and then clenching his teeth because he will not permit himself to gape like an idiot. Only he is an idiot. An idiot for making John worry needlessly. For making John look at him the way he's looking at him now. Like the stars are falling from the sky.

And maybe they are. Sherlock can't tell. Not while he's spinning farther and father away.

He reaches for John, his name half-formed on his lips. Tongue aborting the vowel, he pants, "Jh--"

John holds him steady. Warm. Bright.

Sherlock regains his balance. His orbit. His sun.

 

 

"John," Sherlock threatens him. Holds a pillow against his chest to ward off another attack.

John does not heed his warning. He steps closer.

Sherlock shoves the pillow in his face. A tactical error because John wrests it from him easily enough and now there's nothing at all between them, is there? Stupid, stupid!

John is smiling puckishly. Sherlock is trying very hard not to. He's anxious. Wary. Annoyed.

He kind of likes it.

John can know nothing of this.

Sherlock knocks John's hands aside. Twice. Again. Losing his ground. Back against the wall. John's fingertips skimming his ribcage and Sherlock shrieks. "John!" But it's too late. Sherlock lowers his defenses, succumbing to irrepressible giggles, full bellied laughter when John touches him just _there_. Folding over. John guides him to the floor only to assail him with renewed vigor. Ten fingers teasing and poking and driving Sherlock absolutely mad, tears in his eyes. John had no idea he was ticklish. _This is bad,_ Sherlock thinks. _Only not really._

He snorts loudly. John looses his shit.

 

 

"John," Sherlock groans, his voice riddled with despondency and bone-crushing tedium only teenagers, Mycroft, or caseless weeks engender. Shuffles up behind John. Thinks about it. Thinks about it some more. Thinks about it so hard his face is already buried in John's hair before he realizes he wants to. 

John keeps making tea.

 

 

"John," Sherlock speaks his name like a riddle. Affirming every kiss, every caress, demanding an answer and posing a question all in one, ragged breath.

Brain teaser. Yes. Good.

Drowning. Deeper. Sinking down and down inside his chest. Plummeting, freefalling, flying until he reaches the bottom or the peak, the apex or the nadir. Either way. Doesn't matter; he's teetering on the edge of the world, looking down into the starry night. Eyes wide. A beat of suspended animation. Heat, pressure, pleasure. _Ah_ \--John's hands on his waist. Rolling his hips. Frisson. Sherlock throws his head back against the mattress. Rising, soaring through his stomach, his lungs, his throat. Gasping for breath. "John." Sink, fall, float, resurface. ( _Just like that. Again. More_.) In waves. Languid, electrifying waves. His body riding the crest. His _"John."_ the spindrift.

John whispers, "Sherlock," with conviction. Like his name is the solution.


	101. Covers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a really sappy mood.

Sherlock hogs the covers.

They've been sharing a bed more frequently. They haven't discussed the all-encompassing question of _why_ because Sherlock is Sherlock and John is John; talking about sentiment and feelings has never been a top priority for either of them because they're both emotionally compromised idiots.

The transition almost takes John by surprise. They slept together only when they _slept together_ , initially. And sex with Sherlock was sporadic at best in the beginning. Just as sharing a bed slowly became the norm, the more physical aspects of their relationship evolved over time. (John does not initiate without Sherlock's permission. Likewise, Sherlock is more attune to John's needs and strives to satisfy him in spite of his libido. Because it's John. There's always data to be gathered about John. Plus, Sherlock's always willing to let John spoil him.)

John wakes up to discover Sherlock still in bed. Highly unusual. It's the reason he begins to wonder _why_ , charting a timeline. He soon forgets about the hows and the wheres when he starts shivering.

Sherlock has stolen the comforter, wrapped up like a cocoon.

Arse.

John untangles him none too gently. Not that it makes a difference. Sherlock sleeps like the dead when he deigns it necessary to sleep at all. But he unconsciously paws at the bedclothes, seeking his ill-gotten heat source with sleep-clumsy hands and incomprehensible murmurs. Long arms wrapping around John's torso. Throwing his leg over John's waist. Head resting on John's chest. _And this is how we start cuddling,_ John supposes. He let's Sherlock sprawl across his person, enjoying the warmth himself. Absently brushes his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock 'mmm's his approval.

John chuckles. Jostling Sherlock with his laughter. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. No, he rests his chin on John's sternum, eyes heavy-lidded and gummy. Gradually pulls himself up John's body, delightful friction, toes and elbows digging into the mattress. Levers himself so he can look down into John's face. Flushed. Smiling. Happy. John's hands on his hips. Holding him. Squeezing him. Adjusting his arms and legs to complement Sherlock's dips and angles delectably. Sherlock kisses John on the mouth because John likes kisses on the mouth. Then he nuzzles John's neck. Bumps John's chin with his nose, prompting John to _continue petting my head, please._

So John does. Gentle nails scratching against his scalp. He rubs errant curls between his fingertips. Tugs a little when Sherlock pesters him with guttural noises, lips pressed against John's jugular notch. Tongue dipping inside. Teeth against skin.

John abandons Sherlock's hair in retaliation. Between his shoulders, down his spine, over the swell of his backside and up again. Sherlock sleeps in the nude. John really doesn't mind.

They still don't talk about it. They don't have to.


	102. Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend of twenty-three years is getting married in the morning.

John Watson is getting married in the morning.

Sherlock doesn't particularly care, which means he must care a lot. Absently fills a plate with assorted finger foods. Just enough. Not too much. Doesn't want John to suspect. Not that he's paying enough attention to Sherlock to suspect anything.

He sits at the assigned table. Refuses to acknowledge Mary's Maid of Honor when she claims the chair next to him and engages whoever is willing to listen about the misadventures of her teething toddler. Sherlock can't be arsed to remember his first name. Nibbles wanly on a biscuit. Watches John out of the corner of his eye. Watches him laugh. Wipe chocolate mousse from his fiancée's mouth.

Sherlock cares about John Watson. How he's feeling, where he's going, who he's with. John refers to Sherlock's _concern_ as _stalking_ , and maybe it is. A bit. "You're no better than Mycroft," John told him once. (Sherlock still hasn't forgiven him that particular transgression.)

He feels nothing because he desires to feel nothing. He only ever wants to feel nothing when he fears feeling everything.

John is everything.

Sherlock suffers quietly through the rehearsal dinner. When the time comes for him to address the bride and groom, he stands. Buttons his suit coat with one hand, smooth. Calm. Says, "A toast..." He lifts his glass. "...to the happy couple." He sounds condescending, but John's smile does not waver. Sherlock's heart clenches. "Mary," he begins. "You don't know me well, but you will. No matter how hard you try."

It's a petty threat.

Mary winks at him.

Damn her.

"John," Sherlock presses on. "I won't regale your friends and family with anecdotes from our many cases together. It would do little to illustrate how integral you are to me and my work. You are..." Looks down at (what appears to be) his half-eaten dinner. "...more than a friend. You are my partner. So believe me when I say I wish you every happiness. I am a cynic, John. When you told me you were getting married, I found the idea or marriage ludicrous and superficial. Now, I find it..." Looks up, into John's eyes. "...agreeable."

John's not smiling anymore.

"Thank you." Sherlock takes his seat. The Maid of Honor stands to give her speech.

Sherlock tunes her out. He tunes the night out. The tunes himself out until there's nothing left but a single thought.

Moriarty was mistaken. Jim did not burn the heart out of Sherlock. John has.

 

 

A hypnic jerk. A gasp. Opaque visions of tea lights and boiled shrimp dispersing as he wakes from a hellish nightmare. Sherlock stares at the ceiling from his supine position on the couch. The familiar _tap-tap_ of John's onerous typing douses him with relief.

"You okay?" John asks. There's a wedding ring on his finger.

Sherlock breathes deeply through his nose. "Yes," he answers. Touches the matching band on his left hand. "I'm fine."


	103. Eat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your continued patience. And for catching my awful mistakes. Spell check has obviously made me very lazy. =)

Sherlock stumbles upon a heat seal machine in the home of an "associate" who "specializes" in a plethora of gadgets John can't identify to save his life. Sherlock is smart. Very smart. There's only so much room in his Mind Palace for technological gizmos. John doesn't blame him for deferring to "an expert" when it comes to something like arithmometers. Sherlock carries the heat seal machine back to Baker Street, humming contentedly under his breath.

He uses it to seal barcodes inside John's socks.

John isn't surprised. He's curious as to where Sherlock procured a roll of barcodes, though. Stalking him is one thing, but taking inventory of his underwear is another.

Sherlock stands at the kitchen table. Pressing John's left socks in order of color. The heat from the seal machine divests him of his suit coat and the top two buttons of his shirt. Tugging at his collar. Continues to obsess over his pet project, eyes crinkling when the machine hisses, pops open. Carefully folds the barcoded sock with nimble fingers. He reaches for another. Brown. Rubs the textile with his thumb. Pondering. Lifts the sock to his nose and sniffs greedily before draping it across the hot plate.

John suddenly needs to kiss him. Right now.

Crosses the room. A hand on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock turns. Starts to explain. And while the sentence that he speaks begins strong and round, vowels and consonants, tongue and teeth, shaping the English language like moldable, wet clay--it falls apart once Sherlock perceives John's eyes blazing a trail familiar and secret and provocative. Sherlock follows slowly, his voice tapering off. Quiet. Hushed. Clicks a final K. Lips parting, almost asking, almost smiling. Almost breathing, but not quite. His back to the machine. Gripping the edge of the table. (Yes. Perfect.) John relocates his hand to Sherlock's waist. The heat has made Sherlock's clothes very warm. His skin sticky. John _mmm_ s his delight when he leans against Sherlock's body. Takes his time smelling the vee of Sherlock's shirt. (Lingering detergent.) His neck. (A bit of aftershave. Sweat.) His breath. (Buncakes again.)

Sherlock bites down on the end of John's nose, but not hard. Licks his septum, up the bridge. Kisses John's eyebrow. Navigates his orbital bone with his mouth. Breathing on John's eye before drawing his lips to close around his eyelashes. Allows John to blink his eyelid free. Gasping silently. A non-verbal, mutual agreement and Sherlock's hands are in John's hair. Samples John's tragus. Opens wide like he's going to swallow John's ear. Changes his mind. Whispers instead, "I'll eat you whole."

May be a warning. May be Sherlock's version of sweet talk. More than likely both.

"I...okay." John giggles when Sherlock abandons his earlobe in favor of his cheek, his nostril. Claims his lips while he has the chance. Kisses him earnestly. Laughs outright when the heat seal machine pops open and scares them both.


	104. Bullet

“You know why I’m here.”

Of course he does. It’s obvious. So obvious it’s painful and Sherlock can’t help but curl his lip in response. Mycroft sits opposite him in John’s chair. Legs crossed, umber sock garters just visible up his trouser leg. Makes Sherlock want to break something. Of Mycroft’s, preferably. John would not appreciate finding a mess upon his return from the shops.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft begins. The ellipsis hovers between them. Like bullet holes in limbo. “Put him back.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and Mycroft sighs. More bullets. A cache.

“Have you considered the repercussions?”

Sherlock scoffs. Has he considered the repercussions? Ha! He’s considered and reconsidered to the point of razing his Mind Palace to the illusory ground, insecurity imbued with hesitation and inexperience. _Can I do this? Am I capable? Will I break him?_ Raining down and filling his head, his heart with repugnant doubt. Heavy. Heavier than the guilt he carried with him for three years. Maybe because keeping John Watson isn’t as altruistic as saving John Watson.

Sherlock will destroy him.

He knows he will. So does Mycroft.

The question is: Why would Mycroft care?

Must be written all over Sherlock’s face because Mycroft grins wryly. “He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. I’m afraid,” he says, picking lint from the arm of John’s chair, “that if he were to sever ties during this particular juncture of your…” _Ratta-tatta-tat_. “…acquaintance, you will not recover.”

Perceptive bastard.

Sherlock digs his fingernails into the cushions. “I’ve determined it’s worth the risk.”

Mycroft has a way of frowning with his entire body. Brow furrowed. Shoulders tense. Fingers tighten on the handle of his umbrella. “The risk of what?”

 _Addiction._ Subtext almost as loud as the proverbial gunfire. And this. _This_ is where Mycroft fails to understand. Sherlock is already addicted. Wholly and completely.

Sherlock leans forward in his seat. “Everything.”

He does not expect Mycroft to laugh at him. “Oh, Sherlock. You believe yourself to be in love with him, don’t you?”

Sherlock swallows. It’s the first time their emotional consonance has been classified aloud. Exhales shakily. ( _Damn._ ) “I have—“ he tries. “We are prepared for any eventuality.”

“I wasn’t aware Dr. Watson’s sexual orientation included men.”

“No,” Sherlock answers. “Just me.”

“You’re the exception, are you?”

“Obviously.”

“And you? Since when are you interested in anything other than a puzzle?”

“Since now.”

“How long before you grow tired of him?”

Sherlock’s glower is ferocious. “Get out.”

Mycroft stands without argument. Wanders toward the door and descends the stairs. Quietly, quietly, and he’s gone.

Sherlock broods until John comes home. He continues to brood until John stands in front of him.

“You okay?” When Sherlock doesn’t answer, he hazards a guess, “Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows disappear behind his fringe.

“You’re only ever like this after he’s paid a visit.”

“He sends his regards,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Does he?” John bends down. Nudges Sherlock’s face with his nose until their mouths meet. Kisses him chastely, the sound of their lips parting, touching. Sherlock’s heart vacates his chest, tries to find a new home in his throat. It’s mildly uncomfortable. Sherlock doesn’t like it. Except not really. Because it’s fascinating. Hasn’t felt this way before. Hasn’t been rendered speechless before. Breathless. Wanting more of something legal, something good, something alive. “He didn’t threaten to break me if I break your heart, did he?” John kisses Sherlock again. A little kiss. Gentle, sipping shallowly at Sherlock’s lips. Barely there.

“No.”

“Does he approve?”

“Do you care?”

John chuckles. “Nope.”

“Good…”

They feel each other smile. Bullet holes spackled with yellow spray paint.

“Very good.”


	105. Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of my surprise! The next however many chapters will revolve around John and Sherlock's not-really wedding.

John buys a ring.

Spur of the moment. Isn’t really thinking. No immediate plans for the future. Their future. Together. John blinks at the inexpensive band of silver cradled in his left hand. Swallows thickly. He thinks it’s funny in an ironic sort of way. Growing up, he was a proactive little shit. Decided he wanted to be a doctor at an early age. Studied up on human anatomy. Learnt every bone, very muscle, text books and a slew of girlfriends in the back seat of his parent’s Ford Anglia once or twice or three times. Joined the army.

Serve, retire, practice medicine in the country. Pickett fence. A wife and 2.5 kids.

All of his plans. All of his carefully laid plans scattered to the four winds the moment he was shot. He hasn’t planned for the future since. Hard to, really, living with Sherlock Holmes. Working with Sherlock Holmes. Mourning Sherlock Holmes. Loving Sherlock Holmes. Dodging traffic, dashing over rooftops, confronting serial murderers with nothing but a smart mouth and dumb luck. Taking risks.

John is living one week at a time these days.

Which is why he buys the ring. Because why in the hell not?

Doesn’t intend to propose. Doesn’t intend for Sherlock to find out.

Doesn’t intend to forget about the ring in his pocket, but war crimes and ferrets will do that to a man in his forties.

So will Sherlock’s undivided attention.

Sherlock kisses him when he least expects it. John has yet to determine if Sherlock is experimenting on him or not. Hardly matters. Misses the hook on the back of the door and his coat falls to the floor with a _fwump._ Sherlock pins him with his eyes, his body. John doesn’t particularly enjoy being pinned, but Sherlock has a flair for pinning that is very satisfying. Soothes John’s nerves rather than stimulates them in a very not-good way—thanks ever so, PTSD.

Sherlock leans into John, pelvis first. Leaves his shoulder open for escape and how could John not love him with every fiber of his being?

“Distracting” Sherlock says, his voice syrupy in John’s ear. “I can’t stop thinking. The victim could have been you.”

Not like Sherlock to indulge what-ifs that won’t happen because they can’t or didn’t.

“I wasn’t,” John says. “I’m not.”

Sherlock grunts. Sounds suspiciously like an ‘obviously’ in guttural form. Draws a quick breath when he decides, “No sense in dwelling on it, then.” Nervous. Shaky. The rustle of their clothes when John shifts his weight. When Sherlock’s fingers traipse down and down and he palms the ring in John’s trouser pocket.

John doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t gasp. Waits for Sherlock to finish outlining the band with the pad of his thumb, but Sherlock shows no sign of stopping. Keeps circling and circling, adding pressure. More pressure and John bets there will be an evident bruise come morning.

“It is morning.”

John smiles ruefully against Sherlock’s neck. “Either I’m talking to myself out loud or you’re reading my mind.”

“Mhm.” From thumb to pointer, from pointer to middle. Circle, circle, stop. Sherlock’s ring finger touching the center, recognizable impression and apparent interest beginning to turn John on in more ways than one. “I’m brilliant, but not that brilliant.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

Sherlock’s mobile rings.

Rings some more.

Sherlock isn’t going to answer.

John wouldn’t if he didn’t suspect it was an important call. Lestrade’s personal ring tone. He reaches inside Sherlock’s pocket and Sherlock, likewise, wriggles his fingers into John’s. “Lestrade,” John answers dazedly. Watches Sherlock scrutinize the piece of jewelry…and then slip it on.

Greg’s voice barely registers. Nothing of consequence. Something about statements.

“Y-Yeah, okay.” John licks his lips. Sherlock is admiring (in as much Sherlock admires anything), John’s (frankly) bland selection. “I’m hanging up, now.” So he does.

Sherlock doesn’t just look at John, he _looks_ at John. Saying a million things and saying nothing at all. Marriage has not been a topic of discussion since the night Sherlock instinctively proposed. Since the day John said yes to more than pizza. They’ve lived together, worked together in (mostly) harmony for years. If it’s not broke, don’t fix it.

Sherlock’s mobile lands on top of John’s coat because Sherlock is kissing him again. Rattling the door on its hinges.

They don’t make it to the bedroom.


	106. Bookmark

_They don’t make it to the bedroom._

Because Sherlock is impatient and he wants to have his way with John. I.e., observational coitus. Sherlock remembers where he left off. Like a book he’s read before. Pages dog-eared, spine cracked. Sherlock’s grappling with John’s shirt by the time John realizes exactly where this is going; not very far. But it’s fine. More than fine. It’s addicting, maddening, and it’s hard for John to keep his hands off of Sherlock when he pulls John’s vest over his head like he’s unzipping a body bag.

Drags his knuckles across rib number six. Drags the ring across rib number six.

John can barely contain himself. Gasps, “It’s, um…”

Sherlock shepherds John toward the couch. Doesn’t want John on the floor. The floor is not conducive to his needs.

John walks backwards. Avoids stepping on Sherlock’s mobile and maneuvers around the coffee table without incident.

“The ring, it’s…” John loses his train of thought when Sherlock all but pushes him onto the sofa. Crawls up his body, fingering rib six like he’s playing Beethoven’s _Two Romances_. “Yes, alright!” John snaps. Or tries to snap. God help him, he finds Sherlock’s diligence charming as all hell. “I’m trying to—“

“Hush.” Sherlock settles in his lap. Swats at John’s elbows so he’ll lift his arms over his head. “Let me,” is all he says. The full width of his hand pressing against John’s ribcage. Incremental movements. Mapping, feeling the heat of his skin, the rise and fall of his chest while he breathes. Sighs. Laughs.

“Tease.”

“I’m not teasing, I’m observing.”

Sherlock observes uninterrupted for three minutes.

John struggles not to buck him on his arse when he starts scratching.

“About the ring.”

“What about it?”

“You don’t have to wear it.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow.

“I mean. I wasn’t.” John clears his throat. “It’s not very you, is it?”

“No.”

John resents how quickly Sherlock agreed with him.

“Twenty-two point two carats, sterling.” Repositions himself, tormenting, so he can look John directly in the eye when he bends down. One leg falling off the couch, scuffing the toe of his shoe. (Immaterial.) “Inexpensive, accessible, no markings or engravings with which it may be identified. Ordinary.” Sherlock grins. Slides his hand around John’s back, tracking rib six. Chest to chest. Tasting John’s smile. Nosing his collar. Smelling his armpit. “It reminds me of you.”

John falls more in love.


	107. What

A week goes by. Neither of them discuss their engagement that’s technically two and a half years old. (Semantics.) John has no doubt in his mind they would have carried on as they had before, content with the knowledge of each other’s unwavering devotion, if not for Mycroft sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

John is researching internet jargon. Trying to decipher some of the comments on his blog. What in the bloody hell are feels and why are some of Sherlock’s fans so intent on screaming casually? On the fence whether today’s youth are incredibly passionate or incredibly stupid.

A cry. Followed thereafter by, “OH, BOYS!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice hoarse with emotion.

John and Sherlock share a look. A silent conversation follows thusly:

_What?_

_What’s what?_

_What did you break?_

_Nothing. What did you blog?_

_Nothing._

Mrs. Hudson’s barges in on them without so much as a whoo-whoo!

If John may coin a phrase, shit just got real.

John stands. Sets his laptop safely in the seat of his chair. “Mrs. Hudson? What’s—“

She throws her arms around him. Hugs him tightly.

John makes vague hand motions at Sherlock behind Mrs. Hudson’s back. (Sherlock shrugs.) Pats Mrs. Hudson on the shoulder. Doesn’t know whether he should say _You’re welcome!_ or _There, there. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again._ He’s banking on the latter.

Mrs. Hudson releases John with gargantuan effort. Turns to Sherlock. Face blotched and grinning big and Sherlock recoils. Blanches when she lands a wet kiss on his cheek.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she sniffles. “I’m so proud!”

“Why?”

Mrs. Hudson dabs her watery eyes on the insides of her wrists. Withdraws an envelope from her dress pocket.

Inside the envelope is a card festooned with pictures of top hats and wedding bells and rings and ribbon and Sherlock refuses to touch it. So Mrs. Hudson reads aloud, “Congratulations on your engagement. Love, your brother.” Her bottom lip trembles.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock hisses.

Mrs. Hudson prattles on about setting a date and where Mrs. Turner’s Married Ones exchanged vows and cakes and catering and guests and Sherlock cares for Mrs. Hudson as deeply as he cares for his own mother, but she needs to _shut up, shut up, shut up!_

Mrs. Hudson covers her mouth like she can read his mind. “Oh! Sorry, dear. I’m causing such a fuss.” Giggles at John. “Look at him. He’s so bashful.”

Sherlock is livid. “Out,” he says. To his credit, he addresses Mrs. Hudson calmly and with deference. “Please.”

“Wait ‘til I tell Mrs. Turner!”

Shit just got realer.   


	108. Engagement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have slightly underestimated how time consuming my brother’s wedding next weekend will be. Updates sporadic for the remainder of June. 
> 
> Also, please note that it is ‘violators will be prosecuted’, not persecuted. Sherlock either doesn’t care to know the difference or he does know the difference and he prefers persecution.

Mycroft is an arsehole.

Envelope unsealed, 5” x 7.5”. Card within 4” x 6”. Of course it would fall out when Mrs. Hudson collected the post. And of course she’d notice the theme. She’d have to be blind not to.

Chaos Theory. A butterfly beats its wings half way around the world and _Sherlock Holmes: Marriage Material?_ headlines the _Daily Mail_. Sherlock would implore Mrs. Hudson to keep their engagement a secret, but the truth has a way of revealing itself. Only a matter of time. But—and this catches Sherlock wholly by surprise—he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, _he doesn’t care._ John Watson is HIS, belongs to HIM.

He should buy John a ring. Yes, something that makes a statement. Mine, mine, mine. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Property of Sherlock Holmes. Do not trespass: violators will be persecuted. Would John prefer silver or gold? Diamonds or moissanite? Contacts in the fine jewelry business; Jean Carlo owes him a favor.

Sherlock grabs his coat, his scarf. He’s dashes out the door, down the stairs, and hails a taxi. Visions of cobalt chrome and titanium chiming in his forebrain.

 

John is in the midst of a (he refuses to call it a) meltdown. His heart leaps into his throat when he hears Sherlock return. Practically in his mouth, on his lips when he says, “We don’t have to.” because he will not loose his best friend over cold feet.

Sherlock’s stare needs a flat of its own. Way too dense. Way to analytical. And who gave him the permission to make a damn entrance and steal all of the oxygen from the room?

“Do this,” John amends.

They have a moment. The kind of moment where miscommunication and obduracy and hubris may compromise good reason. Rather than wander down that particular rabbit hole, John listens while Sherlock complains, “Look at what you’ve done to me.”

Digs a box out of his pocket. Opens it with fitful fingers and shows John the contents.

A ring. Gunmetal grey. Tungsten, so says the gold-embossed placard. Heavy. And tough, apparently. Next only to diamond on the Moh’s Hardness Scale. Virtually impossible to scratch. (Unlike Sherlock’s ring, which is already showing signs of wear.) Meant to be felt when worn, despite its elegant cut.

It reminds John of Sherlock.


	109. Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, dear God, no more weddings in real life.

When Sherlock pouts, he wants everyone to know it. Doesn’t regulate a strop just to one room. Doors wide open, limbs strewn most inconveniently across the couch or the kitchen table or the bed, and if John dares to shut himself in the bedroom upstairs, Sherlock resorts to his violin.

Twenty-six texts between the two of them. Catch 22. Sherlock doesn’t want the hailstorm of congratulations and well wishes to affect his thinking, but also doesn’t want to turn off his phone should Lestrade require his assistance. Moans with each new message. Puts Irene Adler to shame. 

John makes tea.

Sherlock follows him like a petulant duckling. Dressed for bed, glaring sullenly at his mobile and John in turn. Like it’s John’s fault people are happy for them.

_Ping!_

“Uuurrrhhggg.”

“Oh, stop. You love the attention.”

“I love your attention.”

It’s said for the sake of argument, but it’s said all the same. John smiles into his teacup.

 

Reporters camp outside the flat on Monday. Their names dominate the headlines on Tuesday. Lestrade and his team applaud their arrival at the Yard on Wednesday. John disables comments on his blog on Thursday. Victor Trevor pays a visit to Mrs. Hudson on Friday, arms loaded with swatches and pamphlets and tiny magnifying glass boutineers. By Saturday, the world is aware Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are tying the knot. By Sunday, the world is invited to a wedding neither John nor Sherlock know anything about.

 

John says, “Run away with me.”

Sherlock produces two plane tickets he purchased a week ago.

“I take this to mean you don’t want a televised ceremony.” John runs his thumb over their destination. “Bells and whistles and all that.”

“I want you.”

Damn but Sherlock can be romantic when the mood strikes him.


	110. Distraction

They don’t leave right away.

Sherlock’s excuse is twofold. One—and this is implicit—it satisfies his overt sense of drama. Two, he doesn’t want Mycroft privy to their plans. John gets a good laugh out of the former and he has yet to determine how Sherlock managed to purchase plane tickets without notifying Mycroft of the latter. However Sherlock got his hands on tickets to Paris, John doesn’t ask. He probably doesn’t want to know.

“Paris. Why Paris?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s the most sensible honeymoon destination of all.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“Paris is obvious and moronic. Mycroft will never think to look there.”

John isn’t so sure, but he lets Sherlock revel in his moment of undetected victory.

They don’t pack luggage. They don’t book a hotel. They don’t do much of anything aside from allowing the tide of “Chocolate or vanilla?” “Chicken or beef?” “Malibu or turquoise?” to go unanswered. The wedding ends up planning itself, anyway, so their participation isn’t strictly necessary.

John feels guilty. A little. But the sneaking and secret planning are incredibly titillating.

“Moronic?” John’s smiles warmly.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Too busy thinking at the ceiling. Toes curl against the leather cushions of the couch.

“How long are we staying?”

“As long as we need to.”

“Or until you get bored.”

Sherlock grins. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, John. I’m sure you can distract me for a day or two.”

They share a look. Familiar, warm, hundreds of years old. “We’ll see.”


	111. Sedan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complementary to chapter 58: Elven.

_Mycroft strides into the flat at his leisure as if he owns the place, ubiquitous umbrella hanging on the crook of his arm. “Don’t we look sharp,” he pontificates, but his smile is genuine. “Your chariot awaits, gentlemen.”_

_“Yes, thank you.” John’s eyes are fixed on Sherlock. “Give us a moment. Alone.”_

_“It would be remiss of me not to mention that the ceremony is due to begin within the hour.”_

_“It can wait.” John’s tone brooks no arguments._

_Mycroft graciously excuses himself._

_Sherlock smirks. He loves it when John asserts his authority._

_John chuckles, but Sherlock can hear his reservations loud and clear. Why me? How me? Not so much cold feet as unforgiving introspection and perspective._

_“Because there’s no one else,” Sherlock says._

_John believes him because it’s true._

 

They sneak out through John’s bedroom window. Down the fire escape, creeping through the alleyways. Sherlock’s pace is strident and eager. John relishes that warm and fuzzy feeling he gets when he’s doing something wrong for the right reasons. The clip-lap of Sherlock’s shoes on the pavement keeps time with his heart.

Leaping fences, picking locks. Panting, jogging, dodging paparazzi and stifling their laughter. Sherlock leads them to an underground parking garage that may or may not have been the scene of John’s first encounter with Mycroft. A nondescript Sedan and an equally nondescript Molly Hooper are waiting for them.

Molly offers Sherlock the keys. He thanks her with a gentle kiss on the cheek. “You are indispensable,” he says. Hops into the driver’s seat and sheds his tux coat. “Come on, John. We’re losing daylight.”

An embrace, a whispered word of thanks. John releases Molly and slides into the passenger seat.

Sherlock is undoing his tie. “Strip.”

John does.

Molly blushes crimson. “Oh-okay, then. Honeymoon underway. I’ll just…” Unsteadily, she leaves.

A change of clothes in the backseat. Two pair of jeans and white button-downs. Sherlock cranks the engine just as John finishes zipping his fly.

“Ready?”

“God, yes.”


	112. Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my absence. The good news is wedding season is over. The even better news is my hours are changing and I’ll have more time on my hands. Win-win!

They fly out of Fitton on a private jet. Sherlock owes the CEO a favor.

They arrive in Paris in short order. Sherlock whispers furtively in the ear of the airfield manager, who just so happens to meet them upon disembarkation, and security ushers them to a private lounge. Luggage full of clothes, toiletries, odds and ends John is pretty sure he doesn’t need nor will ever need. Like nose hair trimmers. And red pants.

“What now?” John asks as they wheel their new belongings toward the complimentary taxi.

Sherlock receives a text from Mycroft. The address to _Le Meurice_ , superior suite, booked under the name Sherrinford.

Sherlock grits his teeth. Sends a curt ‘Thank you.’ regardless.

 

The bathroom is wall-to-wall marble. The bedroom is possibly more expansive than their flat.

“We’ll stay here for tonight,” Sherlock says, shrugging out of his greatcoat. “Find somewhere less…” He wrinkles his nose. “… _less_ tomorrow.”

Might as well enjoy it while it lasts. As much as Sherlock can enjoy even a modicum of Mycrfot’s charity.

They take a bath. Technically. John’s not sure Le Meurice defines _bath_ the same way he defines _bath_. Because it's the size of a miniature Olympic swimming pool.  With two faucets, jets, and courtesy salts and bubbles John can’t even begin to pronounce. But oh God it feels nice. Slipping his body, worn from travel, into a piping hot mixture of eucalyptus and mint. His sinuses are singing.

Sherlock pours two glasses of wine. Because that’s what one does, apparently, when one is rich enough to get drunk in a bathroom that can rival the magnificence of Taj Mahal. It hits John that he’s sharing a bath with Sherlock Holmes. On their honeymoon. John’s not one to believe in parallel universes, or maybe he is. Because right here and right now seems highly improbable. Until Sherlock sticks his foot in John’s face. Wiggles his toes. Silently asking John to either _massage now_ or apply one of the many lotions/oils/scrubs adorning the side of the tub.

John rubs. Hard. Sherlock shoots him a sullen look and reels his long shanks to his end of the bath. Not sure why John’s un-obliging behavior compels Sherlock to start experimenting with the bath products. John doesn’t mind. Just as long as Sherlock allows him to relax, too.

Bubble bath plus jets is not a good idea. Sudzy walls of white obscure their view of one another. John can hear Sherlock almost-giggling and he almost-giggles in return. The wine is damn damn _damn_ good.

John stretches. Locates Sherlock under the water. Their legs tangle. They don’t say a word.


	113. Drown

A tad on the giggly side from the wine, but Sherlock finds John very agreeable this evening. Could be the lighting. Could be how they stumbled from the tub, prune-fingered and covered in bubbles. It's difficult to get dressed covered in bubbles. Sherlock's pajama pants cling to his legs and his back is itchy.

However. John appears warm and inviting, despite the way he's picking at his crotch. They really should have rinsed off first. Or toweled off. Or just stayed naked. Naked is good.

Sherlock is inebriated. He doesn't really care. He invades John's space. Sherlock's space. Because they share space, now. That's what people who are about to marry each other do. Though, come to think of it, they shared each other's spaces in the beginning. Filled each other's spaces. Overflowing. Drowning in each other from the start. Sherlock inhales deeply through his nose. He intends to keep drowning for the rest of his life. 

Sherlock turns over on his back. Lays his head in John's lap, legs dangling off the end of the exorbitant settee. John cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"We're really doing this."

"'Course." Sherlock blinks at him lazily. "Do you think I flew you to Paris for a case?"

A beat of silence.

"There's a case, isn't there?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Bats John's query to the wayside with a flap of his hand. "I wouldn't call it a case."

"What would you call it, then?"

"A quest."

John opens and closes his mouth a few times. "Oh...obviously." But he's smiling. Fingers trailing up and down the length of Sherlock's neck. Their lips meet. And Sherlock starts to sink.


	114. Dangerous

John fetches a wet rag from the bathroom. Sherlock sheds his shirt, which adhered to his chest like a second skin from all the soap and salt residue. Sprawls across the foot of the bed, toes curling into the plush carpet. John wipes him down. From collar to belly button and shoulders to fingertips.

John hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms. Sherlock seriously thinks about offering no help whatsoever. Wants to observe John taking matters into his own hands because John’s hands are a little weathered, definitely abled, and his train of thought leaves him high and dry in a switching yard of John’s capable fingers.

Sherlock lifts. John pulls down his bottoms. Rubs soap scum off his thighs. Out from between his toes. The rag is warm. Smells of sandalwood. John is also warm. Smells of good tilled earth and comfort.

John collapses on the bed beside a considerably less itchy Sherlock. Sherlock gravitates toward him, demanding the removal of John’s clothing with almost-drunken gestures and one-syllable words.

John’s eyes are closed. Relaxing fully under Sherlock’s ministrations. Sherlock cleans his back. His spine. Cataloguing vertebra and counting the near-invisible body hair.

When John falls asleep, Sherlock discards the rag. But he keeps rubbing. Massaging. Kneading the pads of his fingers and thumbs into John’s flesh. Imprints. He would love to leave imprints. But not really. Because Sherlock is woefully imperfect. Doesn't want to leave traces of his imperfect self on an otherwise perfect human being. And yet he means to keep John, despite his best intentions. It’s too late, really. It’s too late not to keep him. _Risky business,_ Sherlock thinks, _this caring lark._

Could be dangerous.

 _Is_ dangerous.

Sherlock nestles his face between John’s shoulder blades. Wraps them in the bedspread. Safe, warm, and not the least bit itchy.


	115. Everything

They’ve tucked themselves beneath the feather duvet and silken sheets. The bed smells of bath salts and sweat. Salty and sweet. It’s dark. And warm. And them. Everywhere. Everysmell. Everysight. Sherlock licks John’s shoulder. Everytaste.

John laughs. Rolls Sherlock over on his back. Dusky bedclothes like a tent over his head. Sherlock has long since lost track of the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t mind. It’s huge. Large enough for two, grown men to wrestle as much as they please, thank you.

John smiles.

Who gave John Watson permission to smile like that and steal all of the oxygen from Sherlock’s lungs?

Sherlock’s heart shudders soundly in his chest. His feels it down to his toes, curling them against the balls of his feet. Steady, steady on. John kisses his mouth. Sherlock gapes. Gasps. Shudders segue to leisurely waves of peace and happiness and more. More than more. Everything. Sharp elbows and hot breath. Liquid gold kisses and electric blue fingertips. Skating down his neck, over his chest, his _yes,yes,yes_. Against his hip, under his knee.

Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s waist. Squeezes. And squeezes until he’s stolen John’s air, too. Swift retribution. Moist lips against his cheek. Unspoken words of endearment. _Love. Love. You. Love._ Sherlock can hear them with his damned heart. Surging with every pull of John’s lips against his unshaven face. Powerful waves melding them together, root to tip. Top to bottom and front to back and every which way until Sherlock is powerless to determine where he ends and where John begins.

 _Me, too,_ Sherlock says. Less quietly but no less verbally.


	116. Exception

“Didn’t you say we have a case?”

Sherlock grunts. Face pressed into the carpet. The bed, frankly, is a mess, and in a moment of sober genius, Sherlock constructed a nest out of couch cushions and spare bedclothes from the linen cupboard. The case in question isn’t exactly time sensitive. It can wait another hour of two or ten. Sherlock is comfortable. His mind buzzing, a dim reminder he’s behaving like a horny teenager. Running away with John. Elopement. It shouldn’t please him as much as it does, but he finds himself seriously enjoying John’s undivided attention. Even if John’s attention is a lot more hands on than usual.

John is tucked against his side. One arm draped across his waist. Kisses the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says against Sherlock’s skin. “I can’t…”

Sherlock turns his head. “Can’t what?” His heart does not belong in his throat. How? When? Why is his heart in his throat?

John smiles softly. Murmurs in his ear. “I can’t stop this.” Suckles Sherlock’s earlobe, but Sherlock buries his face into the carpet again when it starts to tickle and John allows him to escape without a fight. Devotes himself to the back of Sherlock’s neck once more. “I can’t stop touching you. I’m—“ John laughs. “I think I’ve tapped you out.”

Sherlock is offended. An indignant stiffening of his spine. “Do you regret coming here with me?” he wonders. He can feel John shake his head between his shoulder blades. Lips branding his nape with languid kisses.

“Never,” John whispers. His breath is warm, but Sherlock has goosebumps. “Never.” Kiss. “Never.”

Sherlock is smart enough to realize from whence John’s apologies stem. He turns over on his back. Tangling with the sheets and the cushions and they shift together in the bundle they’ve made. Their feet are exposed, bathed in the light of the rising sun. “Now hear this, John Watson,” Sherlock all but growls, his mind droning like a hive a bees in the wake of John’s insecurities. “Do not apologize for…” He swallows. “For loving me.” He may be asexual, but he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy every single minute John lavishes him, ravishes him. And maybe that means something. And maybe John’s the exception.

Is the exception.

"You're the exception," he voices the last thought aloud.

John finds his hand under the sheets. Laces their fingers together. Their rings touch. They touch. And they don't stop touching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I apologize for the slow-going. I've started doing art commissions on [my Tumblr](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) so that's been keeping me busy. I'll try to update more regularly. As ever, thank you so much for reading!


	117. Treasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I am a horrible author. I was told to update my fic and here I am. I'll try to do better. *smooches*

They leave at noon, deliciously sleep deprived.

When management catches wind of their departure, a frazzled hotelier asks Sherlock why he's checking out early, wringing his hands and pulling at his weak mustache. John flags down a taxi. Loads their luggage in the boot.

"You do realize your rooms are non-refundable."

Sherlock smiles. "Really? How awful."

John would feel sorry for Mycroft, only he doesn't.

Sherlock tells the cabbie, "Musgrave Manor," when he climbs into the backseat. John wants to question Sherlock. Manor? What manor? What's at a manor? They're not staying there, are they? Is this about the case? Is it murder? Murder at a manor? Is Sherlock playing Cluedo in real life? Sherlock can read John's unspoken questions in the flicker of his eyelashes and the number of times he clenches his fist. Chuckles darkly. Smug-arse bastard.

"How do you feel about treasure?"

John blinks. "Treasure?"

"Mm."

"What. Like, buried treasure? Are you going to make me dig for it?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Because why wouldn't John be the one digging for it? Sherlock prefers a more managerial role when it comes to menial labor.

"I'm not digging for anything on our honeymoon."

"We're not married yet."

John huffs.

"Soon," Sherlock says, almost breathlessly. Like he can't believe it. A little introsepction, an inward gaze at the immediate future, the immediate forever, until the two of them are nothing but a memory flyaway in the firmament. Burning brightly, rubies and diamonds. Sherlock's eyes shine like pennies at the bottom of a pool. Treasure, indeed.


	118. Dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from Dragon*Con. Let the ficing resume.

Sometimes, Sherlock wonders.

(The understatement of the millennium.)

He wonders what he would think. What his old self would think. His self _Before John_. Love, marriage, waist deep in the cellar of an old rectory in naught but their pants. A quest, Sherlock had thought, sounded relatively harmless. Like a scavenger hunt. Only he’s getting paid. John might enjoy a risk-free case this once. (On their honeymoon.) A day spent deciphering poetry, libraries and book passages and trees for God's sake. John is ‘starting to feel like Nicholas Cage’, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Something good, apparently.

“North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under,” Sherlock mutters. He doubts Reginald Musgrave will compensate him for finding mud and debris. But there are cobwebs in John’s hair. And a patina of dust and sweat on his face and neck and arms and John is smiling, his inner child giddy beyond belief.

Sherlock smells like shit. John is looking at him with a queer gleam in his eye. This, Sherlock gathers, has absolutely zilch to do with his inner child.

They emerge like drowned rats. Soaking wet and nothing to show for it. Evidence of pillaging leads Sherlock to believe (Sherlock refuses to call the man Reggie)’s treasure hunt is a lost cause.

John and Sherlock lay out to dry.  

Sherlock waits until John is dozing before he says, “You find me attractive when I’m dirty.”

John opens his somewhat-bleary eyes. The sound of Sherlock’s voice ebbing and flowing, blurred edges and sharp vowels flushing down his ears. Sherlock touches John’s chest. His skin is warm. Dry and tight. John inhales deeply through his nose. The smell of algae and sun-baked flesh. “Hm?” Stretches. Back arching, elbows locked. “’S’it time to go?” Fingers intertwine over his head.

Sherlock rolls over on his side. Glares at John. Hair dried like a nest of burrs. John ventures to ruffle Sherlock’s untamed mop of curls, but his hand freezes in midair when Sherlock grumbles, “I said you find me attractive when I’m dirty.”

That queer gleam again.

Sherlock sprawls over John’s body. Observing the signs of his escalating arousal with quicksilver eyes. Grossly fascinating, as always. “Why?” Calloused fingertips of his left hand skittering around the crook of John’s arm. Licks his lips, drawing John’s attention to his mouth.

“Do I need a reason?”

 _I like the way you look at me,_ Sherlock thinks, but doesn’t say.

“I like the look of you,” John murmurs. “Raw. Middle of nowhere. Just you and me.”

Sherlock eyes John wryly. Then he nuzzles closer. Breathes in John’s scent. “How do you feel about bees?” he asks in John’s oversensitive ear.

Exhales quickly. A delicious, high-pitched whine between his teeth. “Not sure.” Pause. “Why?”

“I’ve been contemplating retirement.” Sherlock nibbles John’s earlobe.

John sits up so fast Sherlock is nearly catapulted back into the water. “Retirement?”

“Not now,” Sherlock amends. Stands, grabs their clothes folded in a neat pile in the grass. Checks his mobile, saying, “I've never paid much thought to my future, but now that my future includes you, I have paid it due mind.”

John catches his trousers when Sherlock throws them at his face. “Future…”

Sherlock smiles crookedly. “How do you feel about children?”

John forgets how to breathe. Then he remembers who he’s talking to. “Don’t scare me like that, Jesus.”

Sherlock helps John to his feet. They’re behind schedule.


	119. Yes

As promised, Reginald bequeaths the keys of his guesthouse. A little downcast his great great grandfather was too shortsighted to bury his treasure—whatever it may have been—in a less waterlogged environment, but “what an adventure!” he crows, having participated very little himself and shooing Sherlock and John out of the drawing room because they smell of mildew and stagnant water.

 _Adventure my arse,_ Sherlock thinks viciously. He keeps his mouth shut. This once. Because the reward is far more important than laying into ‘Reggie’ for wasting his time, Jesus Christ.

Grips the keys tight in his fist. Biting into his skin. A moment of heart-pounding anxiety. Not fear. Never fear. Actualization. This is happening. They are happening. Sherlock reminds himself to breathe. Manual override. Conscious of every step they’re taking, walking in synch. Across the sweeping expanse of gardens and (apparently) waterlogged ruins of homesteads past. Archaic motes swollen from excessive rain, the smell of earth ripe with budding life, flora and fauna.

Sherlock receives a text. His heart rate triples.

Stops John with a hand on his elbow. Tries to speak. At a loss for words. Feelings intransmutable, the English language ill equipped. Chews on his bottom lip. Unlocks his mobile and offers it to John with a (surprisingly) steady hand.

John blinks at the screen. At Sherlock. At the screen again.

“Mycroft’s taken care of the necessary legalities,” Sherlock exhales, his voice barely above a whisper. Swallows. “All that’s left is our signatures.” Looks into John’s eyes. John’s astonishingly blue eyes. And it all becomes very real, suddenly. As real as lapis lazuli and marigold and Sherlock succumbs to John’s gravitational pull. Noting the premature crowsfeet, the fading tan, the grey hairs, and he wants to absorb it all at the same time and never come up for air. “Say the word,” he hears himself speak, but his voice sounds far away. Too wrapped up in John’s eyelashes, his breath puffing against Sherlock’s mouth, drowning in the details. “And I’m yours forever.”

“Fuck,” John groans. He kisses Sherlock soundly on the lips.

“Not the word I was looking for,” Sherlock gasps when John manhandles him toward the guesthouse.

“I do. Absolutely. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Yes,” Sherlock repeats after him.


	120. Intimacy

Intimacy. Something Sherlock never thought he’d have with anyone. Willingness to allow a man like John Watson to breach the icy walls around his heart. Doesn’t remember the exact moment a conscious decision was made, but stubbornly refusing to aid John in his efforts to form a bond, a link, a connection, and failing miserably. With his stupid unconditional love Sherlock not only managed to accept, to desire, but replicate in under twenty-four hours.

John unlocks the door to Reggie’s guesthouse. Frenzied movements, an aura of lust and love and they stumble through the threshold, narrowly avoiding their luggage, burning up, up, and up. The backs of Sherlock’s knees hit the chaise lounge. He pulls John down on top of him. The closest available surface with which to ravage each other that’s not the floor, because they’re not as young as they used to be.

John looks at him with eyes so heavy with emotion they start to shine, to overflow, complementing a smile as catching as the rest of him.

Sherlock has never wanted someone or something so fiercely in his life. He opens his mouth to express possessive, sentimental rot, but comes to realize they’re not alone. Three sets of eyes staring at them in astonishment, horror, and (God help him) arousal. Each of which bearing Reggie’s family crest on their poly-blend uniforms.

“Leave,” Sherlock says none too gently, but breathlessly. Difficult to sound threatening in the state he’s in.

To John’s credit, he neither chastises Sherlock nor removes himself from his lap. Merely says, “Lock the door on your way out.”

Once the staff have scattered to the four winds, they erupt into a fit of giggles.

“God, I love you,” John says with his mouth as well as his hips. Sherlock responds in equal measure. But easy, easy. No rush. Because the intimacy of the conversation held between their bodies is sweeter than honey, monosyllable accoutrements rolling off their tongues. Little ‘yes’s and ‘oh’s. Encouraging whimpers. A playful nipping of lips.

“Mine,” Sherlock is proud to announce. His chest heaving. The buttons of his shirt biting into his skin. “You’re mine.”

“Mine,” John replies.

Their bodies hum in tune.


	121. Husband

The lounge isn’t big enough to accommodate the both of them comfortably, but Sherlock is loath to stop kissing John to look for the bedroom. Stop kissing John to freshen up a bit. Stop kissing John to…anything, really. There are occasions when John Watson simply ought to be kissed and this is one of them, dammit.

“You stink,” John says fondly. Doesn’t prevent him from sticking his nose in that spot behind Sherlock’s ear. Sighing heavily against his grimy skin. “I stink.”

“Mm,” Sherlock concurs.

“We’re ruining the furniture.”

“Mm.”

“Shower,” John whispers in his ear.

They disrobe on their way to the bathroom, leaving a trail of sodden trousers, socks, and pants in their wake. A bit of a shock to find the shower in question is barely a shower at all. They stand naked, side by side, scrutinizing with chary eyes. Sherlock shrugs. Bullies John inside, suffering John’s not-really-protestations until he slides in with him. It’s a tight fit. Something their turgid members appreciate, but their elbows and knees don’t.

John turns on the water around Sherlock’s back. Cold at first, steadily warming to a suitable temperature. They’re both getting wet so at least they won’t be fighting over the showerhead.

“How are we supposed to get clean like this?” John asks Sherlock’s clavicle.

Sherlock dips his chin. Touches his forehead to John’s, creating a pocket of air. Water drizzling over their shoulders. “Mm,” he murmurs, which is all he’s been capable of for the past twenty minutes because John is finally his, his, his and he’s been busy insinuating a certain term into his extensive vocabulary, among the words he may now use to describe John Watson. Doctor, soldier, friend, lover, _husband_.

John kisses him fervently for giving voice to the latter. Their pocket of air is compromised, but it's fine. It's all fine.

Sherlock is used to drowning by now.


	122. Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bad, bad author.

Sherlock adjusts his grip. Additional pressure and kneading, kneading until John groans aloud. John isn’t a particularly vociferous lover so Sherlock believes he’s entitled to a smug chuckle, a deep rumble in his chest. John, adversely, does not. Glares at Sherlock down the expanse of his bare chest. Sherlock digs the pad of his thumb against the arch of John’s foot in retaliation.

Another groan. “Who do I have to shoot to get you to do this more often?”

Sherlock cracks John’s toes. Idly massages the balls of his feet. “Reggie,” he says with contempt.

John snorts. Watches Sherlock map the jut of his ankle with delicate fingertips. Inhales sharply when Sherlock scratches his calf. Lightly. Oh so lightly. “Let’s go home in the morning,” he exhales. “It’s very nice, this. But—“

“It’s not…” Sherlock hesitates the briefest of moments before adding, “…home.”

John would like to explain, would like Sherlock to understand. Home is where the heart is. And John’s heart is currently held captive, bound and fettered in Sherlock’s possession, locked so deep inside there’s no hope of recovery. John doesn’t need Baker Street. Doesn’t need London. But. Can’t deny they fit the city. Filling the cracks, slipping unnoticed in the recesses of dark alleyways, abandoned warehouses, the banks of the Thames like a lyric in his ear, memorized backward and forward and John says, “Come here.”

Sherlock leans forward to meet his kiss. If John can’t say the words, he can show his soul. Their soul, twisting and turning like London’s Underground. Veiled and thriving.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs. Like he knows. But he would. And will. Always will.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I do not write often, but I spend a great deal of time drawing. Please visit my Tumblr if you're so inclined: anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com


End file.
